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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24625951">Everything of Me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c'>rei_c</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Everything [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alpha Peter Hale, Bad Parent Sheriff Stilinski, Biting, Blood, Blood Magic, Dark Past, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Dreams and Nightmares, Elemental Magic, Fae &amp; Fairies, Fae Magic, Food, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Magic, Magical Danny Mahealani, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Marriage, Mating Bond, Mild Gore, Mind Manipulation, Minor Derek Hale/Lydia Martin, Murder, Negotiations, Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Pack Family, Pack Politics, Past Child Abuse, Past Violence, Politics, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Road Trips, Rough Sex, Scent Marking, Secrets, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, Suicidal Thoughts, Warning: Kate Argent, Wolf Instincts, Worldbuilding</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 11:08:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>208,928</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24625951</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"We're all his," Peter says. "Some of us have learned when to leverage that to our advantage, and some of us are still too focused on what we belong to, rather than who and why."</p><p>or, </p><p>There are so many things to take care of in their immediate future -- meeting with the Consilium, a visit to Letitia in Dallas, the drive back to Beacon Hills, dealing with the pack -- and yet Peter thinks he'd be capable of doing anything, as long as he has Stiles by his side. (And oh, he <i>does</i>.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Danny Mahealani &amp; Lydia Martin, Derek Hale &amp; Lydia Martin, Derek Hale &amp; Peter Hale, Nogitsune &amp; Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale &amp; Danny Mahealani, Peter Hale &amp; Malia Tate, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski &amp; Malia Tate</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Everything [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1046345</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1524</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1309</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Barnish1802, Silver - TW</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>Stiles falls asleep. The bond disappears without him awake to maintain its visibility but Peter can feel it, anchored in his chest, large and strong and woven thick between them. He closes his eyes, inhales the scent of his mate, thinks about everything yet to come: potentially another meeting with the Consilium, a visit to Letitia in Dallas, the drive back home, dealing the McCall pack, with Stiles' father, with the nemeton and Deaton and Stiles' mentor. There's going to be so much to do in such a limited time that if Peter was any other wolf and Stiles any other mate, they'd probably decide to never leave this bed. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Peter is an alpha, now, though, with a wolf currently satiated but soon, he has no doubt, one that will wake up clamouring for a pack so he can stake his territory claim, protect his mate, increase his power. And Stiles is Stiles -- a Spark, yes, with connections that Peter doesn't know about and a power that reaches the centre of the universe, but still Stiles, young and determined and now full of an anchored magic that will demand to play, grow, rule as is his due. It's enough to make any man laugh, enough to have any wolf howling its joy across the heavens. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>He opens red-tinged eyes, holds Stiles close. They're not good people, either of them, and the world isn't ready to face them -- but they aren't going to give anyone the choice. Peter grins, then full-out smiles. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>What fun they're going to have.</i>
</p><p>--</p><p>Stiles wakes up when the sun rises, the pattern of his breathing changing the moment that the sun crests the horizon. He hums, stretching, and rubs his nose on Peter's collarbone. It's another minute before Stiles opens his eyes, looks up at Peter, smiling softly. "Hey," he says, voice sleep-ragged and rough. </p><p>He looks better already, skin losing the sickly tinge he's been carrying around, the circles under his eyes starting to fade. He's so beautiful, lying here, naked and comfortable in it, his eyes still glowing Spark-white, the corners of his lips turned up in an easy, relaxed pleasure. </p><p>"Good morning," Peter says, and thinks that it's been worth it, all of it -- Talia, the fire, the coma, his aborted attempt at holding the Hale alpha power and subsequent death and resurrection -- to get him to this point, here, with his mate in his arms. "Sleep well?" </p><p>"Very well," Stiles says. He leans up, kisses Peter, tongue sliding into Peter's mouth like it belongs there, tasting every crevice and corner, running over the pricks of Peter's fangs. "Morning breath," he says, once he's pulled back enough to speak. "Ick." </p><p>Peter laughs, says, "And you can't do anything about that? Lazy creature." </p><p>Stiles grins, lifts up a hand to trace the arch of Peter's left eyebrow. "The way you like me," he says. "You should get some sleep. You must be exhausted." </p><p>"Exhilarated, actually," Peter says. "The alpha power, the bonding -- either, both. I don't think I could sleep right now if you paid me." </p><p>"Hungry, then?" Stiles asks. </p><p>Peter narrows his eyes, looks at Stiles; the question was too innocent, too put-on, especially with the way Stiles has one hand on Peter's face, the other circling Peter's navel. "What are you really asking?" </p><p>Stiles' smile turns a little blood-thirsty, a little predatory. Peter feels the greed of it run through their bond, down his own spine. "I've had sleep," Stiles murmurs. "I'm ready for round two and I'd really like you to fuck me now, alpha." </p><p>"You just woke up," Peter says, trying to ignore the way all the blood in his body is rushing to his dick, the way that the wolf inside of him starts panting in want. "Aren't <i>you</i> hungry? You should eat something." </p><p>"You're my mate," Stiles says, and he rubs up against Peter, letting Peter feel that Stiles is hard, too. "Provide me with <i>sex</i>, Peter, and feed me later." </p><p>Peter's first instinct -- his first human instinct -- is to wrap his hand around the back of Stiles' neck. He remembers what that feels like, though, what it does to him, so with his arm already in motion, he ends up running his fingers through Stiles' hair, scratching at Stiles' scalp. The noise Stiles lets loose sings to his wolf, calls the lupine power to the forefront; Peter wraps arms around Stiles, sits up and pulls Stiles with him, and kisses Stiles. </p><p>It's a rough kiss, Peter's fangs tearing into Stiles' lips and tongue, Stiles giving back just as good with blunt, human teeth. Their blood mixes in their mouths, smears out onto their chins, and the smell of it combines with their scents to have the wolf inside Peter howling. Stiles bends, bites Peter's throat, digs his teeth in and <i>shakes</i>, tearing the skin. </p><p>"Taste so good," Stiles mutters, as the smell of salt and pomegranate floods the air around them, sense-impression of their bond. "God, Peter, could just -- I could just eat you alive." </p><p>Peter throws his head back, gives Stiles the vulnerable line of his throat, says, "Do it," and rubs his hand over their cocks, gathering pre-come on his palm before he jerks them off together. "Do it, Stiles; take what you want, anything, I'm yours." </p><p>Stiles groans, thrusts up into Peter's hold, gives Peter a matching bite on the other side of his neck. "My wolf," he says, and kisses Peter again, this time bringing Peter's blood with him, liquid already soaking into the soft palate of Stiles' mouth like a permanent fixture. "My alpha, my mate. <i>Mine</i>," he snarls. Peter murmurs agreement, over and over, until Stiles grips his face with both hands and says, "Fuck me, Peter." </p><p>Peter falls onto his back, Stiles straddling him, and Stiles stops, just -- looks at him. The mood disappears, instantly, even though their bodies haven't yet caught up; Peter still has them both in hand, Stiles still carries a lust-fevered blush on his cheeks, high up on his chest. </p><p>Peter frowns, says, "What? What is it? What did I do wrong?"</p><p>"I said I wanted you to fuck me." Stiles narrows his eyes, asks, slowly, "Do you like being on your back, Peter?" Peter's not sure how to answer that; it sounds too much like a trick question. Stiles lets out a sharp exhale, rolling his eyes. "Oh, for the love of --," he mutters, then leans down, fixes his gaze to Peter's. "Listen to me, wolf," he says, and the alpha inside of Peter sits up, head cocked to one side as it listens intently to the Spark currently pissed off at it. "This man is going to fuck me -- right now and for years into the future. He is going to be above me, behind me, on top of me, and a dozen different other positions. None of them will be an attempt to dominate me because he is wholly and completely unable to do so and he <i>knows</i> that. He is mine and he is doing what I want. Do you understand."</p><p>The wolf whines and Peter bares his throat.</p><p>"Do you understand?" Stiles asks again, demanding an answer. </p><p>This time, the wolf yips, just once, a noise that, to Peter's ear, almost sounds apologetic. He reaches up, strokes his claws across Stiles's cheekbone, says, "We understand."</p><p>Stiles kisses Peter, close-mouthed, chaste, too short. He rubs his nose along the line of Peter's cheek, inhaling, and Peter takes the opportunity to nudge his chin against Stiles' skin, leaving his own mark even though their scents are already entwined, joined. "Then <i>fuck me</i>, Peter." </p><p>Peter smiles, a bared-teeth, snarling smile, and surges up, flips them. Stiles lands on his back, Peter above him, caging him against the mattress, and Stiles grins up at him, Spark-white eyes glowing with pleasure. "I'm not going to be gentle; I can't, not right now. It's going to hurt," Peter says, the rumbling purr of his wolf invading his voice. "I'm going to take what I want from you and leave you screaming. That's what you want, Stiles?"</p><p>"Yes," Stiles breathes. The inner light of magic radiates outwards, through Stiles's skin, and he moves his legs, spreads them and pulls them up as much as he can with Peter still crouched over him. "Please, Peter." </p><p>Someday, Peter's going to eat Stiles out, send him spiralling through orgasms just from Peter's tongue in his ass, get him all loose and sloppy and wet and leave him aching to be filled until he's past the point of words and movement and can only beg with noise. Someday -- hopefully soon -- he's going to take hours fingering Stiles, might even work him so open that Peter can get his fist inside, imagines the way Stiles would blossom so beautifully under the attention, would drip sweat and flare his scent and leave Peter just as undone as Peter leaves him. Right now, though, all Peter wants to do is get <i>inside</i> and he's already warned Stiles that he's not going to take his time. </p><p>He moves Stiles, arranges him so that he's holding his knees wide, baring himself for Peter's touch, Peter's gaze. Peter's had partners in the past who hated this position, disliked being so open, detested the way it left them broken apart for Peter to look at. Stiles gives into it beautifully. He has nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed about, and Peter -- Peter aches for the trust Stiles offers him, for the way he can feel the bond between them, anchored tight on both ends, for the look in Stiles' white eyes as he waits for pain. </p><p>"God," Peter breathes. "<i>God</i>." </p><p>The look on Stiles' face turns wicked, smile gleaming like shards of glass, as he says. "Not quite." </p><p>Peter laughs, helplessly, and then rams himself inside of Stiles. </p><p>Stiles is still a little open from last night but not enough to keep him from giving voice to a low, broken moan of hurt. Peter doesn't stop, ignores the way that he can hear Stiles' skin tearing except to use it to urge himself on, ignores the smell of fresh blood except to think, idly, in the back corner of a mind gibbering with fear at what he's doing to a Spark, that the blood -- even the most miniscule amount -- might help to slick the way. He's focused on bottoming out, getting wholly inside of Stiles, and he does, almost immediately with the force he uses. Once he's there, he doesn't wait, just pulls almost all the way out and slams back in again, baring his teeth when Stiles jerks underneath him. </p><p>He loses himself to the rhythm, the wolf, the need to take this offering and break it apart so that no one else will ever want it, to claim it so thoroughly that no one else will ever even think about trying to take it away from him. He wants to <i>ruin</i> the man beneath him, tear out his heart and fill the empty space with his own, mark Stiles so thoroughly that Stiles breathes the same breath as Peter, feels the same beating heart sending life throughout his body that Peter does, exists with the same blood, the same flesh, the same all-consuming, uncontrollable need to be <i>one</i> and never separate. Stiles sobs, tears running down his temples, instinct pushing him to get away but not strong enough to overpower his need, the way he's still holding his calves, still letting Peter take and take and take. Peter wants to get his teeth into Stiles' neck, wants to lay a circle of bites and bruises around his throat in claim, but the wolf won't let him; he has to settle for drawing his fangs over Stiles' collarbone, for ripping apart the skin of Stiles' shoulder. </p><p>Stiles screams when Peter's claws dig into his hips, harsh, wracking breaths doing nothing so much as exciting the wolf, but he goes still the instant Peter circles one hand around his dick. He's hard, Peter doesn't know how he's still hard even through all this agony Peter's inflicting, and he meets Peter's eyes, white to red, for a split-second before Peter throws his head back and <i>roars</i>, thrusting without rhythm into Stiles as he comes. </p><p>--</p><p>Peter -- drifts, there's no other word for it. He and his wolf are in tune, achingly connected, as they float in the aftermath, both of them surrounded by the scents of mate and sex and blood. He thinks, possibly, that he could spend hours here, like this, wrapped in intense physical completion, feeling his wolf's fur run up and down his skin. </p><p>But then a kick to his chest and a pissed-off, "Don't leave me hanging here, Peter," start to draw him out of it. </p><p>He opens his eyes, feels his spent cock twitch, as he meets Stiles' eyes and takes in the gleam of Stiles' teeth. "Jesus," he says, can't help the slight thrust as his mind starts coming back to him. He looks down, sees fingernails, not claws, on the hand around Stiles' dick, and jerks once, twice, feels Stiles tighten around him, and groans, grinds in as far as he can as his healing kicks in and he starts getting hard again. </p><p>"Don't you dare," Stiles hisses, "not until I do. I will kill you, Peter." </p><p>Peter's <i>mostly</i> sure that Stiles won't, not when he's all that's anchoring Stiles, but he doesn't want to chance it, not with that look in Stiles' eyes. He draws his thumb up the underside of Stiles' cock, twists a little when he gets to the head, and Stiles closes his eyes, throws his head back and arches into the touch. Peter does it again, collects more pre-come on his palm to ease the friction, and follows the clues of Stiles' body to figure out what Stiles likes best: this finger here and Stiles moans, this motion here and Stiles pants, this curl here and Stiles comes. </p><p>The pressure around Peter's dick feels so good; he moves into it, with it, and comes again with a low groan. When he's done, the last spattering of aftershocks worked through his body, Peter pulls out, rubs one finger around Stiles' rim and draws pain, winces as he eyes the damage he's done. </p><p>"As close to all-powerful as anyone gets," he murmurs, "and you can't heal this?" </p><p>"Don't wanna," Stiles says. "Not until I plan on sitting up, at least." He makes grabby-hands for Peter and Peter goes willingly, curling around Stiles, licking up the salt-tracks from Stiles' tears before he starts pressing kisses to Stiles' temple, murmuring apologies. "Don't apologise," Stiles tells him, shivers when Peter draws fingers over the claw marks in Stiles' hip, still sluggishly bleeding. "Wanted it, wanted <i>you</i>. You warned me; if I wasn't ready for it, if I didn't want it, I would've stopped you." </p><p>Peter's instant reaction is to argue, to say that Stiles wouldn't be able to stop him, not with Peter in a mating frenzy, but that's a human reaction, a denial of everything that Stiles has done, the past few days, and everything he is. "I know," Peter says. "I'm still sorry." </p><p>"Be sorry while you sleep," Stiles says. "And get over it by the time you wake up." Peter mutters a protest but his eyes are already closing, half against his will, and the wolf, completely satisfied, is dragging him under. "Love you," Peter hears, and then he's asleep. </p><p>--</p><p>He dreams of the nemeton. The tree's at the centre of Hale territory and full-grown, providing shade over a large clearing. There's a woman kneeling at its base holding a small ceramic box; she looks young, Asian, harried, and smells of fox dens and fire. Noise comes from the forest, yelling, shouting, the crunching of shrubs and bushes and broken branches. She looks around, turns back to the box, whispers out a prayer and then shoves the box deep in the nemeton's roots. She runs; a few minutes later, soldiers run through as well, ignore the tree, fan out of the clearing in every direction. </p><p>The box rattles, a dozen fireflies emerge from the tree, the nemeton shakes and collapses into dust, cracking open the box. </p><p>Then -- Stiles. Stiles, wandering into the dust-cloud, wearing nothing except a stripe of red paint down his back. He kneels at the ruins of the tree, cups his hands, and a black fly buzzes around them, eventually lands. The fireflies dance around Stiles' head, dart towards the black fly, are rebuffed every time when Stiles closes his hands around the fly, protecting it. The swarm of fireflies grows until they're so thick that he can't see Stiles, a furious, droning hum surrounding Stiles, and then it breaks, just long enough for Peter to watch as Stiles brings his cupped hands to his mouth. </p><p>The fireflies start to pop, one by one -- pop, pop, pop, <i>pop</i> -- </p><p>And then Peter wakes up. </p><p>--</p><p>Stiles is sitting next to him, cross-legged, dressed, and with a tray on his lap. He cocks his head to the side, looking at Peter with eyes gone back to human-normal, says, "Ah. The dreams started, then?" Peter forces himself to sit up, takes the tray when Stiles offers it, glances across the food: pancakes, coffee, baked oatmeal. "It's all vegan," Stiles says. "The elemental doesn't keep milk or eggs here but there's flour and flaxseed and shelf-stable soy milk. Hope that's okay." </p><p>"More than," Peter says. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble." </p><p>"No trouble," Stiles says. "You were asleep and I was bored. I made some bread as well; we can have peanut butter sandwiches in the car if we want." </p><p>Peter starts to eat, hadn't realised how hungry he was until the first bite of pancake is being chewed and swallowed. "Heal yourself?" he asks, in between bites of whole wheat and chocolate-chip pancakes and baked oatmeal laced with dried cranberries and cherries. </p><p>Stiles smiles, says, "Mostly. I thought making sure my alpha was fed was more important. Didn't clean up, though." </p><p>Peter nearly chokes. He looks at Stiles, inhales deep; Stiles reeks of Peter's come, of blood, of satisfaction and a little bit of pain. "Mostly?" he asks. Stiles pulls his shirt collar to one side, shows off the scabbed-over ruin of his clavicle, then displays his hips and the five perfect claw-marks in each side. "Stiles, I'm --" </p><p>"Not going to apologise," Stiles says firmly. "You're going to eat and then we're going to fix the house and make ourselves presentable, because we have lunch plans." Peter makes a show of eating, exaggerating his bites, but raises an eyebrow as well. Stiles waits until Peter's halfway through his pancakes before saying, "I called the kittens. We're going to meet with them before we leave. Bee's going to be there as well, so you can meet her, and the elemental, Alex." </p><p>"What should I expect?" Peter asks. "And what did you mean about the dreams?" Stiles looks at him; Peter says, "You'll have to carry the conversation while I eat, Stiles." </p><p>Stiles rolls his eyes, sprawls out on the bed. "Fine," he says. "Expectations for lunch. We're going to a place I like on Magazine; they do these amazing waffles and they have a coffee they call their adderall brew, plus the crab and bacon dip, and the shoestring fries, and the paella --." He trails off, licks his lips, and Peter looks down at his breakfast tray, wonders if he should be eating it based on the way Stiles has gone momentarily silent with food daydreams. "Anyway. The kittens prefer Commander's Palace but I like watching them try to blend in. They fail miserably but it's like getting a meal <i>and</i> a show -- and I always make them tip well. Alex doesn't eat meat but doesn't care if other people do and Bee refuses anything with onions, and both of them are sarcastic little shits, so you'll get along fine. They're also completely devoted to me," Stiles adds, looks and sounds discomfited, his innate distaste for the reverence a Spark deserves weighing heavy on him. "So when I start laying into the kittens, they'll be right behind me." </p><p>"Good," Peter says. "So will I. What, exactly, will you be castigating them for?"</p><p>"The wards, first of all," and Stiles' eyes go hard. "They should never have increased the power of their wards like that, not when they knew I was coming." Peter frowns, a little confused. "They'd never get them strong enough to stop me," Stiles explains. "Not when I'm the Spark who made them. But they raised the level to war footing without any kind of notification. Fuck knows how many people were affected." Of course Stiles is more concerned with other people; Peter doesn't know how that matches the idea of Sparks being unable to care about others, thinks maybe all of those ancient stories got some things drastically wrong. Although it could just be Stiles. </p><p>It's probably just Stiles. He has a habit of exceeding expectations. </p><p>Stiles shifts, rolls onto his side and shoves a pillow under his head, fixes his eyes on Peter. "Then we're going to talk about the little welcoming party they sent out to meet us. I haven't decided what to do with them yet. When I explained the situation to Bee, she told me to kill them all and start over. Alex said much the same. What do you think?" </p><p>"I think that you probably have an idea already," Peter says, "and I'll back you up, whatever you decide." Stiles huffs, opens his mouth, and, ignoring his wolf, Peter says, "But I don't think you should kill them." That gets Stiles' attention. He closes his mouth, makes a gesture with his hand for Peter to carry on. "Killing them may not solve the problem if their successors are anything like the originals, and it may breed distrust. You're a Spark, Stiles. I think you should use that. Remind them what you are, put the fear of god into them, then <i>make</i> them respect you. Cut out a little bit of their pride, too, while you're at it. It's obviously made them stupid." </p><p>"I don't like fucking with people," Stiles says, mouth a firm line. "I don't like --" </p><p>Peter leans over the tray, touches Stiles' leg. "You don't like being a Spark. You've said that. And I can't imagine what it must feel like to know that there's realistically very little outside of your abilities, to have had to create your own moral code to keep your magic under control because it's so reactive that it would do anything you asked of it." He pulls his hand back, smelling something start to inhabit Stiles' scent, something that Peter can't put a name to. "Your mentor's doing what she can but I'm your mate, Stiles, and I'll be honest with you even when you don't want to hear it. In this? Fix the cats. It's the best choice. You <i>know</i> it's the best choice." </p><p>Stiles flops onto his back, laces his hands together on his belly. Peter sips at his coffee, waits. "I fucked with someone's mind once, when I was little, before I knew what I was. What I am," Stiles eventually says. Peter's heart sinks; he sets down his coffee mug, feels like he knows what he's going to hear before Stiles says it. He thinks back to everything they've talked about the past few days, mind slotting together bits and pieces from various conversations. It's not altogether a surprise when Stiles says, "My mom." Peter closes his eyes. "I wanted -- she was trying to kill me, Peter, and she didn't know why and I didn't know why, either, and I was doing a lot of unconscious magic around that time. Being around me heightened her own magic and so mine gave her dementia in self-defense; when that didn't work to stop her, I made it bad enough that she ended up restrained to a hospital bed for six months. I'm the one that drove her mad and I think I knew it, on some level, because when she had one last moment of lucidity and asked me to kill her so that none of us would suffer anymore, I did."</p><p>"Stiles," Peter breathes, because guessing something and hearing it are two completely different things. There's pain twined up in Stiles' scent, pain and heartbreak and sorrow. No guilt, though, and no remorse, so at least Stiles doesn't regret the actions he took to save his own life. He just mourns them. </p><p>"It's why I'm so hesitant to mess with anyone's mind or personalities," Stiles says. "I don't trust myself not to make it worse." </p><p>Peter lets out a deep breath, puts the breakfast tray to the side. Stiles tenses at the movement and so Peter doesn't do what he wants, which is to gather up Stiles, hold him close, wrap him in cotton and keep him safe from a world that's been so cruel to him over the years. Instead, he moves just enough to brush his leg against Stiles', to use the smallest of physical connections to ground them together. "You're older now," Peter says. "You've ignited and you've been in training and you don't use your magic unconsciously anymore. You <i>know</i> your magic and your magic knows you. You can do it." Stiles doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge Peter's words, so Peter says, quietly, "You've been in and out of my mind in the last twenty-four hours and I'm not any the worse for wear."</p><p>Stiles sits up, a rapid movement that Peter didn't expect; he blinks at the action, has to fight not to drop his eyes when Stiles glares at him. "I would <i>never</i> --." He stops, hisses between his teeth; the glow coming from under his skin explodes and paints the air around them with prismatic sunlight, so bright that Peter has to squint his eyes against the luminescence. </p><p>Resisting the urge to hide under the blankets from the glare currently making his eyes water, Peter says,<br/>
"You drive your magic, Stiles. If you don't want to hurt them, you won't. You haven't hurt me." Stiles says Peter's name; Peter can't stop himself, shows Stiles red eyes and a curled lip, even through his tears. "You called me alpha, you accepted my offer of emissary-ship, and you let me fuck you raw," he says. "And all of this after the history we share. By any metric in any court, I've hurt you a lot more." </p><p>Stiles' eyes are wide and the light around him starts to fade back into something a little more subtle, the glow of starlight rather than high-noon sun, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. It's like he can't comprehend Peter's words, as if he's been living on an entirely different planet the last few days, and Peter won't have that, he <i>won't</i>. </p><p>"You claimed me," Peter says, softer. "You could have changed me when you did that but you made us part of each other, instead. When my wolf didn't feel comfortable being above you, you gave it permission to adapt. Instead of revelling in an alpha werewolf's submission, you told me to be myself. You <i>demanded</i> I remain myself, not turn into a slave, and -- you want <i>me</i>, Stiles, do you know how that feels? To know that someone like you, Spark or otherwise, wants me as I am? We're not good people, we're not <i>nice</i>, and you want me anyway. Maybe even because of that. I would do <i>anything</i> you ask and all you've asked is that I fuck you, take a nap, and then eat breakfast." </p><p>"I've asked you to kill," Stiles says, eyes wet and shining with something that smells, amidst Stiles' scent, like love. "To take me halfway across the country and murder someone in cold blood just so I don't die." </p><p>Peter gives Stiles a smile, a sad one, though a proud one, too. "You came to me for help and asked nothing of me I wasn't already prepared to provide," he says. "I would let you do <i>anything</i> to me, Stiles, and I'd live through it -- or die through it -- happily, knowing that it's what you want." </p><p>Stiles laughs, a choking, wet sound, as he pulls his knees up to his chest, as he wraps his arms around his legs and holds himself compact. "I don't deserve that," he murmurs, still loud enough for Peter to hear. "No one deserves that." </p><p>"It's my choice to offer it," Peter says, "and I have. I do. Not because you're a Spark, or my mate, or a member of my pack. But because you're you." </p><p>Peter moves, then, slow enough that Stiles can push him back if he wants, to wrap one arm around Stiles' shoulders. Stiles turns into the half-embrace, snuggles in closer, and Peter feels a wave of tension slip out of Stiles' body even as his light dims further, sinking in and leaving Stiles limned in soft moonlight. </p><p>"The nogitsune said something similar right before we split," Stiles says, soft, quiet, almost reluctant. "I didn't believe him. But I might eventually start to believe you." </p><p>"I'll just have to keep saying it until you do, then," Peter says, and tries to hide the triumph from his voice at having won this one thing over the fox that Stiles still seems to miss. Evidently he doesn't hide it well enough; Stiles elbows him, makes a noise that Peter thinks is supposed to be indicative of his dismissal, his distaste for the competition, but just sounds fond. "Are we good?" </p><p>Stiles sighs, rubs his eyes on the back of his hand. "Yeah," he says. "We're good. And I'll fuck with the cats; you're right, it's the best choice. I was hoping you'd talk me out of it but -- whatever. If I make it worse, we'll just kill 'em." </p><p>Peter laughs, can't help it. "That's the spirit," he says. "Now, a more important question: are there more pancakes?" </p><p>--</p><p>They clean up by hand. Peter whines, says that Stiles could put everything back in order by snapping his fingers or waving his hand or just blinking, but Stiles says that while magic is a tool, they shouldn't use it just because they can when making the bed by hand works just as well. It's more telling than Stiles realises, probably, and gives Peter a greater insight into the rules Stiles must have bound his magic into following. </p><p>Once the house is clean, they shower -- separately, to Stiles' disappointment, but the shower isn't big enough for both of them and they really do need to get clean since they'll be spending time with other shifters -- dress, and leave. Stiles erases the runes from the front door handle, then resets the wards, taking away most of his magic so that the blue tinge comes back, although it doesn't seem as faded as before. Stiles also wraps up most of his scent, leaving out just the top layer. Peter's gratified to learn that this layer of scent is thoroughly entwined with his own, not to mention with satisfaction, adoration, the diabolic mischievousness that Peter hopes Stiles never hides again. </p><p>As they drive away, Peter looks back at the house; he's not the most sentimental of wolves but he thinks he'll always remember this house fondly. </p><p>The drive back upriver takes about seventy-five minutes. They do it with the windows rolled down, with Stiles telling stories about everything they pass, pointing out landmarks and restaurants and places that used to be other things, more popular things. Peter asks how Stiles knows all of this when he's only spent a weekend in the city, why he <i>cares</i>, and Stiles says, "I know a lot about a whole pile of cities," like it's nothing, like it's no big deal that he knows enough about New Orleans to sound like a native as he talks about the city and the parishes surrounding it-- except for the accent, of course. "Chicago, Portland, Seattle, Dallas -- though that one makes sense, I guess -- and Boston. I know a little about St Louis, a lot about Wichita, and nothing about Detroit. Savannah and Charleston, I could probably give tours there, and I mean, New York, right? The history of NYC is fascinating." </p><p>"But you call it <i>NYC</i>," Peter says. "No one calls it NYC." </p><p>"I do," Stiles points out, very obviously trying to hide a smile as he says it. </p><p>Peter rolls his eyes, asks, "But <i>why</i>?" </p><p>Stiles shrugs. "Why not?" he asks. There's more to it than that; Stiles' scent has changed, a little, deepened, maybe, or gone darker, somehow. Peter decides not to push, not when they have the rest of their lives in front of them and, more immediately, a nearly-forty hour drive back home to Beacon Hills coming up.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When they get to the Garden District, Peter follows Stiles' directions and parks in a lot off Magazine. He and Stiles walk hand-in-hand to the restaurant where they'll be having lunch and Peter stops in front of the window, gives Stiles a look. </p>
<p>"What?" Stiles asks. </p>
<p>"You're such a little shit," Peter says, and yanks Stiles close, presses a kiss to Stiles' hair as Stiles yelps at the unexpected movement. "Red Dog Diner? Seriously? This is the place where you've invited <i>nine cats</i> to have lunch?" </p>
<p>Stiles grins, a tinge of devilish amusement in the expression, and he shrugs, says, "Like anyone'd expect anything else. But the waffles <i>are</i> delicious." He ducks out of Peter's hold, goes inside first. Peter growls under his breath, doesn't like the idea of Stiles leading the way into unfamiliar territory, but Stiles swats back at him, ignores Peter's expression to tell the hostess that he's part of an expected party of thirteen. </p>
<p>"Make sure you ain't first up from the table, darlin'," she says, leading them towards the back. "Bad luck, bein' the first to leave." </p>
<p>"I'll be sure someone else goes first," Stiles tells her. </p>
<p>They chat companionably, nothing to get Peter's hackles up, so Peter takes the opportunity to look around. The walls, some wood-panelled, some exposed brick, some half-and-half, are mostly blank, not much hanging on them to break up the lines of panel or stone. Industrial-style Edison light bulbs, the kind that are so popular now, hang from the ceiling and shine bright, reflecting the natural light coming in through the front bank of windows. The curved bar to one side seems like it'd be a good place to spend a couple hours after work -- the red-cushioned bar stools are all empty now, at lunchtime -- and the bartender's rearranging the glasses sitting on a back shelf, whistling lightly. There are a couple tvs with the sound muted and captions on showing ESPN and FoxSports; the radio must be tuned to public radio because the announcer sounds charmingly local and cues up zydeco. The furniture's nothing special though the chairs look like plastic backyard picnic types; Peter brushes his hand over one on the way to their reserved spot and feels sturdy metal instead, is pleasantly surprised. </p>
<p>When they get to the back of the restaurant, Stiles raises an eyebrow as if to see if the place meets with Peter's approval. Peter gives Stiles a small smile, inclines his head, and takes in their space: tucked into an alcove, three tables pushed together, menus and pitchers of water already laid out and waiting. </p>
<p>Stiles scoots around to the far side of the table; this puts his back to the wall and gives him full view of the restaurant and everyone coming their way. Peter approves of this strategy, follows his mate, makes sure Stiles gets a spot in the middle and then sits down once Stiles has finished squirming his way onto a chair. Stiles scans the menu, makes a relieved noise and points to the duck waffles. Peter pats his thigh and fills both of their water glasses. </p>
<p>They have just enough time to order drinks -- a beer for Peter and a cup of the adderall brew coffee for Stiles -- and a few appetisers before a tall, elegant woman with dreadlocks swept away from her face and piled high on her head winds her way back to their table. Peter sniffs, lightly, and smells water, bone, charcoal. This must be the swamp witch. </p>
<p>"Stiles, baby, it's been too long," she says, coming around the table, pulling Stiles into a hug and squeezing tight. "How's our little Sparkling doin', huh? I see you're still kickin' it with the wolves."</p>
<p>"Hey, Bee-Bee," Stiles says. She lets him go, looks around him, eyes narrowed as they land on Peter, and Stiles says, "Bee, this is Alpha Peter Hale, my mate. Peter, this is Béa du Lac, Witch of la Basse-Louisiane."</p>
<p>Peter's knowledge of colonial history is not the best, but he's relatively sure that <i>la Basse-Louisiane</i> covered territory in at least four states. To be the acknowledged witch with power over <i>four states</i> means that this is a woman not be trifled with -- and Stiles calls her Bee-Bee. </p>
<p>Of course he does. </p>
<p>"A pleasure," Peter says. He tilts his head up in respect, showing her his throat, but doesn't take his eyes off of her, watching as she studies him. </p>
<p>The air between them is tense; they're both taking the measure of the other, trying to see if they deserve Stiles, if Stiles is safe with them, and Stiles lets them, stands there with his arms crossed and gaze as neutral as it ever gets. </p>
<p>"They started sniffing each other's butts yet, sugar?" </p>
<p>Peter growls, Béa jumps, and Stiles grins wide, turns and leans across the table, arms wide open. "Alex," he says. "Thanks for letting us borrow the house. I -- um. We made sure we aired it out, don't worry, though I did raid your pantry. Peter and I left some cash but I don't know if it's enough." </p>
<p>Alex ruffles Stiles' hair, gives him a big smacking kiss on both cheeks. Peter's lip curls. "No worries, sugar," Alex says, drops the hug and gives Stiles a lascivious grin, winks as well. "Might even find it inspirin', next time I'm there." </p>
<p>Stiles laughs and Béa drops into the chair next to Stiles', groans and says, "Ain't s'posed to say shit like that in front of his wolf, Alex, y'idiot."</p>
<p>Alex mutters, sprawls out in the chair across from Peter's. It gives Peter a chance to study this elemental, a person who opened up their house to let a Spark and a wolf stay over knowing full well that they were going to fall into a mating frenzy -- and probably in Alex's bedroom. </p>
<p>"Preferred pronouns?" Peter asks. </p>
<p>"I like 'im, baby," Alex immediately tells Stiles. "I knew you'd pick good, but I think you done picked <i>good</i>." Peter grins, can't help it, and Alex says, "They/them, please, alpha, but I answer to male pronouns too if you wanna." </p>
<p>Peter raises an eyebrow, says, "Ignoring your preference would be rude," and settles into his chair as Alex, Stiles, and Béa start talking. </p>
<p>Alex is tall and stretches out, owning their space as they do nothing so much as <i>lounge</i> in their chair. They could be a looming presence if they tried but the smile on Alex's face is wide, honest, deep. Their eyes are caring, filled with respect as they turn to Béa and something a little like devotion when they look at Stiles. Peter wonders what Stiles has done to deserve that, to earn it, and figures that if he needs to know, Stiles will tell him. </p>
<p>Béa's a little more tense, holding herself like a queen, the weight of power sitting heavy on her shoulders. The incline of her head and the set of her jaw means, Peter thinks, that she's not afraid to bring what must be a <i>great deal</i> of power to bear when required. She's wearing something white and billowing, at odds with the way her magic feels, tightly reined in, drawn down with the bones of a hundred skeletons, the rhythms of lapping waves circling around her feet like she keeps alligators for pets. Peter doesn't want to stereotype but Stiles referred to her as a <i>swamp</i> witch; maybe she does live hand-in-tail with 'gators and snakes. There's also a hint of kudzu to the smell of her power, the same damp kudzu in Stiles' scent, which speaks to the kinship of their magic -- and anything with kinship to a Spark demands respect and a hell of a lot of caution. </p>
<p>Alex, on the other hand and for all that they're a bayou-based elemental, smells of salt air and deep water, of driving rain in hurricanes and the anticipation of predators tasting blood in whirlpools. They're wearing blue: a tight shirt that looks feminine in cut and shows off their biceps and a row of leather bracelets with buckles and chains and snaps going halfway up each arm. Their wide, dark eyes are highlighted by eyeliner, a touch of eyeshadow, and the curve of their lips are glinting with gloss. Peter doesn't know what kind of strength it takes a Black man to come out as genderfluid or genderqueer or even agender, whatever Alex identifies as; it has to be easier in a city but this is still the South, and that strength of character, that firm understanding of their identity, has Peter letting go of a level of tension. No matter how relaxed they appear to be, no one like Alex will let anyone fuck around with them or the people they love. </p>
<p>By the time Peter's done with his initial assessments, the waitress has brought back a beer for Alex and a glass of juice for Béa, refilled Stiles' coffee, dropped off plates of meatballs and fritters, devilled eggs and bruschetta, a cheese plate and something that must be the crab and bacon dip Stiles mentioned before. Alex and Béa wait for Stiles to fill a small plate before doing the same themselves; the wolf inside of Peter growls a little that they don't wait for <i>him</i>. Peter chastises it, reminds it that Stiles is the alpha at this table and the others -- including him -- live at Stiles' pleasure. Béa looks at him, over Stiles, as if she heard his wolf or felt his response to it. She studies him for a moment that feels caught in time, then inclines her head, a slight smile at the corners of her mouth. </p>
<p>"So," Alex says, once they've drained half their beer and eaten three slices of bruschetta right in a row. "You decide what you wanna do 'bout the cats, sweetie?" </p>
<p>"I'm not going to kill them," Stiles says. Alex makes a noise of disappointment; Béa's shoulders tighten and her scent takes on a darker tone, like bayous at midnight, all reptilian skin and bloodied water. "Killing them might not solve the problem. Changing them will." </p>
<p>Alex perks up, says, "You gonna <i>fix</i> 'em, sugar? Finally? What made you --." They stop, let their gaze move very slowly from Stiles to Peter. "Yup," Alex says. "I <i>really</i> like 'im if he can get through that thick skull o' yours when we can't. I ain't even offended." </p>
<p>Béa picks up a slice of cheese, nibbles at its edges, nods, slow. "Whatever you need, Sparkling," she says. "As always."</p>
<p>"If it doesn't work, I'll puppet them out of here," Stiles says, "but we'll need help with body disposal."</p>
<p>The scent of magic from Alex, Béa, and Stiles combines, fills their little nook, gets Peter's wolf prowling even as the man gets a little lightheaded. It's -- intense, to put it lightly, though it becomes more manageable when he feels Stiles pluck at the bond, echoes of <i>everything of mine is part of everything of me</i> flooding through the magical sense-noise to give Peter enough room to breathe. </p>
<p>"Sorry," Stiles says, leaning over and brushing his nose down Peter's cheek. Stiles sets his hand on Peter's thigh, squeezes, gives Peter something to ground himself to, to anchor himself with. "I should've warned you." </p>
<p>"Aw, baby, he's fine," Alex says, reaching to take a piece of cheese off of Béa's plate, doesn't move fast enough to avoid the slap. They shrug it off and pick at a fritter instead. "Takes more than that to knock an alpha with Deucalion's legacy sideways." Peter stiffens, lets his eyes flare red. "I hold contract with the Consilium," Alex says, their voice a little more serious, a little less light and easy, as they look from the food up to meet Peter's gaze. "You think I ain't gonna notice when a wolf in my territory suddenly moves from Algiers to <i>my house</i>?" </p>
<p>Béa snorts, says, "Don't act like you care, Alex. You're only upset because you weren't the one to kill 'im." </p>
<p>Alex deflates a little. "Yeah, well," they say, as if that's any kind of retort. "Deucalion might've been an asshole but he <i>was</i> strong, and bonding his wolf to our little Spark should've made sure that he -- oh, wait, yeah, that's right, ain't it. Wolves. I forget y'all've always been sensitive to Sparks. Hell, maybe we should be impressed you wasn't flattened just now."</p>
<p>Peter will never admit that he was driven to his belly yesterday but he has a feeling the others can read it off his face. "All shifters are," he points out, "which makes it curious to me that the cats here haven't had the same problem." </p>
<p>"Wolves have a better sense of smell," Stiles says. "They can read more about a Spark through scent than anyone else; the impressions they get are deeper, more precise. Cats aren't <i>bad</i> at it but they lack the wolf's nose and the echo that other magic users can use to pinpoint the flavour of a Spark's magic. Even foxes are better at using their fire to sort of -- reflect a Spark's light, is the best way to describe it." Stiles' eyes go distant, mentioning foxes. Peter wonders if that was the way the nogitsune explained it to Stiles or if Stiles could actually see his own magic the way the fox did, used the fox's senses to explore the way a shifter can't help but be struck by the very presence of a Spark. </p>
<p>"But cats?" Peter asks, gently, as he fills Stiles' plate again and pushes it in front of Stiles, silently encouraging Stiles to eat, to put aside his memories of the nogitsune for now. </p>
<p>Stiles looks at him, tells Peter without words that he knows exactly what Peter is doing and why -- and appreciates it. He spears one of the meatballs on his fork, takes a bite, chews and swallows. "But cats, while shifters, are a magic of their own, an internal, self-defending and self-obsessed magic. They're proud and independent and are, these ones especially, narcissistic. Cats are used to being worshipped themselves, you know, and they take it as a point of superiority that they're descended from a goddess when other shifters were Called or Forged into being." Stiles pauses, finishes his meatball, sets down his fork with more care than Peter normally sees from him, and adds, "Also, they're here." </p>
<p>All four of them stand up in sync and Alex comes around the table to stand next to Peter. For his part, Peter's eyes fix on the group of nine making their way through the restaurant and back towards them. Four men, five women, the shortest probably around five feet tall, the tallest well over six foot, all of them moving as if they're prowling. There's a variety of dress, everything from jeans and a t-shirt to a full three-piece suit, a mix of skin and eye and hair colours, but all of them have the same vaguely disdainful curve to their lips, the same expensive accessories, the same attitude as if they own this place and <i>still</i> find it beneath them. </p>
<p>One of them -- a woman, not the woman at the house -- comes to stand opposite Stiles. Judging by her place at the front of the council, she's ostensibly holding the place of the Bastet, the current Consilium leader. Peter can smell the pride wafting off of her, that and a slow, simmering distaste. She lowers her chin an infinitesimal amount and says, "Spark," in a tone that has Peter's wolf snarling. Another cat, the one at the leader's right hand, runs his eyes up and down Peter, scoffs and looks away in dismissal. </p>
<p>Stiles had been relatively calm before that, his magic pooling heavy around him but laying quiescent. At the insult to Peter, though, he stiffens, scent turning angry, magic coiling up into large circles of barbed wire. "<i>Kittens</i>," Stiles drawls. One of the cats -- a panther, by the reek of her -- bares her teeth, snaps them. Stiles doesn't move but Peter can smell a wave of light cross the table, curl violently around each of the cat's throats, making them all freeze in place, chins tilted up as if to try and escape the collars of Spark magic. "How kind of you to join us." </p>
<p>"As if we could refuse an invitation from a Spark," the Bastet says, like she wishes she could have done just that. </p>
<p>A man at the end of the line lifts a hand halfway to his throat, wincing, but drops it at a look from the woman standing next to him. Peter hopes they feel Stiles' magic like a choke-chain. </p>
<p>"This is Alpha Peter Hale," Stiles goes on, proceeding with the introduction through clenched teeth. "I've accepted his offer to become his mate and emissary. We'll be settling our pack in Beacon Hills. You already know Béa du Lac, of course, and Alex Goodson has also consented to bear witness to this meeting as an interested party. Please, sit." </p>
<p>Stiles drops into his chair; Peter follows his lead a moment later, reluctant to give any sort of advantage to the cats but willing to trust in the ferocity of Stiles' magic. The cats sit, one by one, and so do Alex and Béa. The waitress comes by, clearly picking up on the tension as the casual friendliness from before has disappeared into professional pleasantry, taking drink and meal orders, promising refills, getting away from their table as fast as politely possible. </p>
<p>"I was under the impression that there was already a pack in Beacon Hills," the Bastet says. Peter thinks it says a lot -- maybe more than he knows -- that Stiles introduced him but hasn't put a name to any of the cats yet. "The one you previously belonged to, in fact." </p>
<p>"Beacon Hills is Hale land," Peter says, taking a sip of his beer. "The other pack will be dealt with accordingly." </p>
<p>There's a flicker in Béa's scent, appears and then disappears too suddenly for Peter to name, but there's no outward sign of recognition on anyone else. Peter thinks about what Stiles said, about how cats aren't as sensitive, don't care about understanding the nuances of scent, and wonders if they noticed or would even care. </p>
<p>"Congratulations, Spark," one of the cats says, a man, speaking up for the first time. He's blending in, sitting up straight with his shoulder back and his chin lifted up, but his eyes are a little softer. Peter still doesn't like him but thinks he might be the least awful of the group. If Peter had a say, this guy should be the Bastet.</p>
<p>Stiles nods but doesn't otherwise reply, and the table descends into awkward, vicious silence. The Bastest eventually breaks it, looks resentful at being the one to speak, crossing her arms over her chest and narrowing her eyes as she asks, "Why have you called us here?" Stiles takes a sip of his coffee, doesn't reply. It's a long minute before the Bastet hisses, makes a dismissive gesture with one hand. "We have other things to do than wait on <i>your</i> beck and call, Spark. What could be important enough that it takes all nine of us to deal with it?" </p>
<p>Stiles grins, an expression that, if it were turned on Peter, would have his wolf dropping to its knees, whining in apology without even caring what he may have done wrong. "You, actually," Stiles says. "And the way you drew <i>my</i> wards up to war footing without there being any provocation apart from me coming into your territory." He leans forward, asks, with a hint of a snarl riding at the edge of the words, "Did you honestly think that my wards would keep me out? Would stop me from coming here to do what I had to do? That I would give you control of wards that could keep out a <i>Spark</i>?" </p>
<p>This time the flicker in Béa's scent stays, hardens into thin, crackling ice. "Ah," she says, deceptively gentle. "So that's what that was. I see." </p>
<p>"They're our wards," the Bastet says, casually tossing aside the accusation. "We can do whatever we want with them." </p>
<p>"In a sense," Stiles says. "But they aren't to be used as lightly as you seem to. They're tools, Katrine, and protection -- and, yes, weapons. They're supposed to be used responsibly, not according to your whims. And never against me." </p>
<p>Katrine. Quite the name to carry in this town. </p>
<p>The Bastet -- Katrine -- scoffs, says, "If you don't want them used against you, you should never have --," and stops abruptly. She goes pale; her eyes flash red. She reeks, to Peter's nose of sudden realisation. "You're going to take them away." </p>
<p>"Not quite," Stiles says. "I'm going to take part of <i>you</i> away." </p>
<p>The cats all tense, some of them look as if they'd like to run, but the waitress is back with drinks, a few of the meals, and there's someone else following her with another tray. She hands everything out, gives Peter a bigger smile than the cats when he thanks her, and Peter basks in the way Stiles' scent grows a tinge of approval and gratitude. Peter's never been shy about thanking his waitstaff, always tips outrageously well -- he wouldn't want their job and shows his appreciation when he can -- but sees, again, the difference between himself and the cats, who seem to take this as a matter of course, like they deserve to be waited on hand and foot, most especially by a pure human like their waitress. She seems to pick up on the attitude, is a little less pleasant to them, but smiles to Peter, to Alex, who grins up at her, and Béa, who murmurs her pleasure with the food, and Stiles, who takes his plate of duck waffles with such enthusiasm that anyone would be hard-pressed <i>not</i> to smile at him. </p>
<p>Stiles digs in without waiting, says, "Oh my <i>god</i>, I'm never leaving," with a mouth full of food and a blissful expression on his face. It does smell good, smells good and looks good, but Peter ordered the cioppino and has no complaints of his own. </p>
<p>It's a shame that the company couldn't be improved; the atmosphere at the table hampers Peter's enjoyment of his lunch to such an extent that he leaves a handful of mussels and clams in the bottom of his bowl. Evidently the cats aren't any better; half of them don't touch their food, the other half only get about halfway through their meals before giving up. </p>
<p>For his part, Stiles makes his way through his entire plate of food, then finishes up Peter's for good measure before stealing two slices of Béa's roasted beet pizza. Alex offers broccoli gratin and macaroni and cheese; Stiles eats those, too, with single-minded focus. Peter's already been anticipating a future of feeding Stiles -- his wolf won't accept anything other than providing Stiles with everything Stiles might even hint at wanting, and food is as basic as it gets -- but he watches Stiles eat through enough food for two wolves and can see his grocery bill triple in front of his eyes. </p>
<p>"Ain't always like this," Alex murmurs. "And I fig're today's a special occasion; ain't unheard of to eat one's weight after a mating. S'why I ordered the extra sides."</p>
<p>Peter had wondered about that, feels disappointed in himself for not doing the same but minorly gratified that Stiles came to him for seconds before eating off of anyone else's plate. He gives Alex a nod, is a little taken-aback at the blinding grin Alex shoots him but can't help returning it. </p>
<p>Stiles eventually sits back in his chair, hands over his belly, smelling of satisfaction. "Aw, man," he says, eyes closing, leaning over to let his head drop onto Peter's shoulder. Peter feels his heart skip a beat, knows the cats heard it, too. "All the naps. So much digestion. Metabolising. Hard work." </p>
<p>"You can sleep in the car," Peter says. "Again." </p>
<p>The noise that comes out of Stiles' mouth is completely indecipherable, owes nothing to any language, and has Peter shifting to wrap an arm around Stiles' shoulders, pull him in closer, inhale the scent of a content mate and emissary. </p>
<p>And to think, a week ago he was willing to wait years for this. </p>
<p>"As we wouldn't want to put off your nap," Katrine says, tone glacial, "perhaps you can explain just what you meant earlier." </p>
<p>Stiles doesn't move but does open his eyes; Peter can't see them but can tell, from the way that the cats' heartbeats have started racing, by the way he can feel their own bond thrum, that Stiles' eyes have gone white. "I'm sick and fucking tired of dealing with you," Stiles says, blunt, not mincing his words now that he's been rudely pulled out of an impending food coma. "So I'm going to change you. Deeply. At a level I wouldn't ordinarily touch. I'm going to get rid of your pride, install a little civic-mindedness, and leave you with some fucking <i>respect</i>." He stops there, takes in the way that all the cats have gone pale, are twitching with the need to move but stuck fast to their chairs by the rope of Stiles' magic around each of their throats, then adds, grinning enough that Peter can feel it through his shirt, "And I'm going to <i>enjoy</i> it." </p>
<p>Katrine gapes, says, "I don't -- you --" and stops, mid-breath, eyes wide. </p>
<p>Peter can't see Stiles' magic but he can smell it, smells it intensely, like little fizzing bursts of barbed sunshine in his nostrils, and he knows that Stiles does something, pokes and prods and <i>yanks</i>. Béa's watching like she's following the trace of every tendril of magic Stiles is using, her eyes darting this way and that, a small smile starting to eat up her mouth, and Alex -- Alex just reaches over the table and steals one of the cat's beers while they're immobile. </p>
<p>It takes five minutes, feels like a sigh has just been let out of the room when Stiles is done, and Katrine bows her head, the other cats shivering, shaking. </p>
<p>"Thank you, Spark," she says, and Peter's stunned because she <i>means</i> it. "We -- please, let us make it up to you." </p>
<p>"Anything," one of the others says. "We'll do anything; we're sorry, we're so sorry." </p>
<p>Stiles stands up, abruptly, and the cats all rise as well, almost as one, panicked, each of them talking, apologising, words tripping up their throats and over each other. "Pay the bill," he says. "Tip at least thirty-five percent. Don't be dicks. Béa will be in touch with you; treat her as you would me." </p>
<p>"Yes, Spark," Katrine says, backing away from the table, eyes raised to the level of Stiles' mouth, unwilling to meet his eyes. "Of course. We'll wait for her to contact us." </p>
<p>They leave. Stiles stays on his feet until he's made sure they've paid and left, then collapses into his chair. He's gazing out over the restaurant but Peter knows that he's not seeing anything, can smell the abyss of self-hatred and despair that Stiles is starting to spiral into. Peter wants to pick apart everything he just saw, smelled, felt, wants to dissect that scene and Stiles' use of magic until he understands everything that happened, wants to ask Stiles questions about everything from what he did to how he did it -- but Stiles is more important, will always be more important than Peter's mere curiosity, and Stiles is sinking. </p>
<p>Peter hauls Stiles out of his chair and onto Peter's lap, isn't surprised when Stiles first refuses to relax and then gives in entirely, pulling his knees up, making himself smaller, burying his face in Peter's throat. </p>
<p>Béa moves into Stiles' chair, rests a hand on Stiles' back. "You did the right thing, Sparkling," she says. "And you left 'em alive. Flicking a few switches in their tiny feline brains is worth it if it keeps 'em alive, right?" </p>
<p>Alex tugs Stiles' feet into their lap, rubs at Stiles' ankles. Stiles sobs, one momentary release of pressure, and Peter's heart aches. He knows that Stiles is thinking of his mother, of the first time she threatened his life, of the moment when he felt such terror and love that his magic swept to dementia instead of just reaching out and killing her, of what it might have been like if he could've saved her, if he'd ignited earlier and was able to carve the magic out of her enough that she'd go back to normal, of how it must've near-killed him to meet her eyes and know she meant it when she asked Stiles to end her life. Peter doesn't know how much strength of will it took for Stiles to give his mother the gift of death but thinks it's even more than what Peter's seen here today. </p>
<p>"Proud of you," Peter murmurs. "She would be, too." </p>
<p>Stiles looks up at Peter, meets alpha-red with Spark-white, bites his lower lip. "You think?" </p>
<p>Peter rubs his nose to Stiles', says, "I know." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Stiles eventually moves back to his own chair but pulls it right next to Peter's before he does. Béa and Alex go 'round to sit on the other side, and the waitress comes back, raises an eye at the stack of empty plates in front of Stiles, the collection of half-full and untouched plates on the other side of the table. "They was a whole party o' good moods, huh?" she asks. "You want me to box these up for you? We just gonna throw it out."</p>
<p>"Please, if that ain't too much trouble, darlin'," Alex says. The waitress grins, gives Alex a wink, and says she'll be right back. Alex watches her go, lets out a low whistle and then immediately goes, "Ow! Béa, stop it, you ol' harpy. She worked hard to look that good; might as well respect it." </p>
<p>"Gross," Béa says. </p>
<p>Stiles laughs -- it's more of a snort, really, and half a chuckle, but he's smiling. "So, Bee-Bee," he says, and the witch straightens, looks at Stiles with full seriousness. "How's the territory, these days?" </p>
<p>Béa narrows her eyes. "Why do I feel like any answer I give's gonna get me in trouble?" Stiles waits; Béa sighs, says, "There was somethin' up 'round Jackson I had to deal with last month. Will said it came down from Chicago. He lost the trail in Memphis but I took care of it easy 'nough. Other than that, been pretty boring, Sparkling. Why?"</p>
<p>"Because I told the kittens to treat you like they would me," Stiles says. </p>
<p>Peter expects more of an explanation but Béa doesn't seem to need one. She groans, sits back in her chair. "S'right, you did," she says. "Well, shit." </p>
<p>Alex elbows her, asks, "Wanna renegotiate my contract?"</p>
<p>"You really wanna negotiate with <i>me</i>?" Béa snaps back good-naturedly. "I held the Consilium at bay for decades before our Sparkling came in and made me sit down with 'em. Think if I was negotiating on their behalf I'd do you any better than what you already got?" </p>
<p>"But you <i>like</i> me," Alex croons. "And you don't like them." </p>
<p>Peter smiles, watches the byplay. These two are entertaining, seem comfortable with each other in a way that Peter hadn't expected. Most witches tend to stay away from elementals and vice versa but it's not entirely unheard of that a witch and an elemental of the same type draw close instead of repel, just rare. Stiles isn't acting like this is unusual for the two and Peter's relieved that there are at least two people in this city who appreciate Stiles the way he deserves. </p>
<p>The waitress comes back with boxes and another round of drinks; she starts packing up the leftovers and won't hear anyone protest the drinks. "Y'all deserve 'em for dealing with those others," she says, "and they more than covered it, don't worry your pretty little head," she adds, scritching Alex's buzzcut. "You want dessert? Somethin' else to go?" </p>
<p>"We'll divvy this up," Béa says, "but thanks." </p>
<p>The waitress goes back to the bar and Alex stands up, says, "Good seein' you, Spark, but I got a lady I need to buy a drink." </p>
<p>Stiles stands, gives Alex another hug across the table, sends them off with a "Good luck." </p>
<p>Peter watches Alex swagger over to the bar, perch on a stool and lean over, can't help the laugh. "They're an incorrigible flirt, aren't they. Jesus." </p>
<p>"Put the moves on our own little Sparkling first time they met," Béa says. Peter looks at her so fast that his neck pops, eyes flashing red as he tugs Stiles closer. Béa grins, says, "Aw, don't worry, wolf. Your boy here smacked Alex down <i>quick</i>. Actually, now that I think about it --" </p>
<p>"Oh god, Bee-Bee, please, no," Stiles says, hiding his face in his hands. </p>
<p>"-- Now that I think about it," Béa goes on, clearly amused with Stiles' reaction, fond look in her eyes before she turns to Peter. "Our Sparkling here very firmly told Alex that he was 'taken, even if the dumbass hasn't made a move yet,' and -- what was it?" Stiles groans; Béa's trying to not laugh. "Oh, s'right, something like, 'And if I have to present right in front of him with an engraved invitation on a plug up my ass to get 'im over his stupid werewolf chivalry, I'm gonna, and soon, 'cause otherwise I'm gonna <i>blow</i>, <i>fuck</i> this courting bullshit.'" She pauses, waits a beat, says, "I mean, if I recall correctly." </p>
<p>Peter bursts out laughing, can't help himself. Stiles peeks out of his hands, face bright red, and mutters, "That's right, laugh it up," before hiding again. There's another grumble of words, something about being horny and pissed off and Alex getting glitter all over Stiles' hair and how itchy feather boas are, and then Stiles says, "I'm just gonna -- hide under the table for, like, <i>the next century</i>, okay?" </p>
<p>"No, no hiding," Peter says, and doesn't even need to use werewolf strength to tug Stiles' hands off of his face. He's still bright red, the blush going halfway down his neck, lighting up his ears and the skin under his eyebrows, and Peter kisses Stiles' forehead, can't stop, peppers kisses all over Stiles' face and ends by pressing his lips against Stiles' for far too short a time and much too chaste for all the love and adoration he feels. "I like it." </p>
<p>"'Course you do," Stiles says, and he's smiling now, even through the flush. "But don't think I'm --" </p>
<p>Peter cuts him off, whispers right into Stiles' ear, "Oh, I <i>definitely</i> think you're going to act that out for me. Maybe even with the glitter." </p>
<p>Stiles pulls back, nose wrinkled. "Glitter gets <i>everywhere</i>, Peter; we'll be cleaning it out of the house for months."</p>
<p>He's not sure which house Stiles is referring to, Peter's townhouse, Stiles' own house, or some home they might buy or build, decorate, and move into in the future. Whichever one, he likes it, likes the way Stiles talks about it as if it's obvious that they'll be there together, living together, a united force against the scourges of glitter. It makes his wolf happy, makes his stomach warm, makes him lean forward, kiss Stiles again. </p>
<p>This kiss lasts longer, gets a little dirtier, and they only stop because Béa smacks her hand on the table, says, "A'ight, enough. I can't take it anymore. Y'all need me for anything else or can I go rescue that poor woman from Alex?" </p>
<p>Stiles thinks for a moment, says, "I'll call you," and stands up to give Béa a hug. This time he actually walks around the table, clings to her, lets enough of his scent go and loosens enough of his magic that Peter can smell them soak into her, the flavour of salt and kudzu sitting heavy on her brow before it sinks in. "Be safe, okay? And let Will and Tía Mari know what's going on; it's not a crime to ask for back-up when you've got other things to take care of." </p>
<p>"Will do, Sparkling," Béa murmurs. "You take care o' yourself, y'hear? Let the wolf help; he's your mate, s'what he's there for." </p>
<p>"Fine," Stiles says, but he doesn't look upset with the advice when they disentangle. </p>
<p>Béa looks at Peter, inclines her head and offers her wrist. She's not a shifter but she apparently knows the etiquette enough that she merely smiles when Peter lifts up her wrist to his nose rather than bending over to scent her. This close, her scent of water deepens into the wetland bog of cypresses, the bone and charcoal dance close to each other, practically the same source, a hint of weeping willow and kudzu hover around the edges. Stiles' magic is in her scent, now, as well, a hint of salt and petrichor, echoes of eucalyptus, enough to relax Peter with the depth of Stiles' trust in her, not enough to trigger the possessiveness of a mated alpha. </p>
<p>He offers his own wrist in return when he lets go of hers. She's not a shifter but she's earned Peter's respect enough for this. Stiles, at his side, beams when Béa takes it, rubs her cheek over the pulse point. "Well met, Alpha Hale," she says, and squeezes lightly before dropping his hand. "And safe travels." </p>
<p>"Well met, du Lac of la Basse-Louisiane," Peter says. "Good luck with the cats." </p>
<p>Béa laughs, waving Peter off, picks up a stack of take-out boxes, and heads in the direction of Alex, now holding court with three women and the male bartender. Peter watches her go, relaxes a little when the only magic left around him is Stiles'. "I like them," he says, head tilting, watching as Béa invades Alex's space, as they let her, as the bartender says something and the whole group of people start laughing. </p>
<p>"I'm glad," Stiles says. He looks at Peter, smiling, a layer of tension gone from his shoulders. "You said something about a nap?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They make a quick stop at Sucré before getting in the car, and Stiles is still awake as they follow I-10 out of the city and towards Baton Rouge. He seems content to sit quietly, watching out the window, one hand in Peter's and the other curved protectively around a box of macarons. Peter's not so sure why this box gets special treatment when they have another half-dozen of the mint-green boxes in the back seat, stuffed to the brim with macarons, handmade marshmallows, and chocolates, but he's not about to question the easy silence they've fallen into. It's enough that Stiles is here, smelling content, holding a box of sweets that Peter bought for him; Peter's going to spoil Stiles within an inch of his life and if his mate wants fancy macarons and mint julep chocolates, that's what Stiles is going to get. </p>
<p>They're an hour into the drive, starting to hit the southeastern suburbs of Baton Rouge, when Stiles finally speaks. "You wanted to know about the dreams this morning," he says. He's still looking out the window, so Peter can't get a sense of Stiles' expression; his scent is -- quiet, closed-off, nothing more than the base essentials of what makes up Stiles.  </p>
<p>Peter frowns, thinking, and gets hit with an instant sense-memory of the collapsing nemeton, Stiles swallowing a black fly, the sounds of a thousand dying fireflies dropping to the ground in ever-expanding circles around him. "That's right," he says. "I'd forgotten. We got -- distracted, but when I woke up, you said that I'd started having the dreams. What did you mean?" </p>
<p>"Tell me about the one you had," Stiles says. </p>
<p>"There was a woman," Peter says. "She had a box, or case, a container -- it was made out of ceramic, plain black. She buried it at the base of the nemeton, ran away when soldiers came. Not modern soldiers; these were wearing older uniforms, carrying older weapons. The nemeton fell apart, shook into dust." He blinks, tears himself out of the memory of the dream, focuses on the road again. "You were there. You had a red stripe painted down your spine and you swallowed a fly. The moment you did, a swarm of fireflies started dying." </p>
<p>He glances over at Stiles, watches as Stiles tears his eyes from the window only to stare down at the Sucré box in his lap. "Noshiko Yukimura," Stiles says. "How much do you know about the nogitsune? The backstory, I mean: why he was there, what happened to him before he possessed me." </p>
<p>"Not much," Peter says. "I was kept very much on the periphery of that episode. Can't blame the others," he adds, thoughtfully. "No doubt they imagined it would be disastrous to let a nogitsune spend time with a resurrected madman." </p>
<p>Stiles snorts, looks at Peter. "Resurrected madman," he drawls. "Right." </p>
<p>Before Peter can argue the point, Stiles tells him more, if Peter's truthful, than he really wants to know. Stiles weaves a story about a concentration camp -- "I mean, they called them internment camps, but seriously?" -- and the reasons behind Alpha Ito's move to Beacon County, about a kitsune with eight tails and her secret affair with an American soldier, about a deal made in the black of night and the breaking of a contract at the same moment a sword broke, a heart broke, a nogitsune broke. He tells Peter of the nogitsune being trapped in the nemeton for decades, of the way he was slowly freeing himself after the tree was chopped down and it was no longer a strong prison, merely a decaying one. They drive through and out of Baton Rouge as Stiles speaks of a resurrection ritual, two creatures of curiosity and amorality meeting each other, of time spent in Eichen House and the acceptance of possession, of an alpha's roar and the hectic splitting of two souls into two bodies. </p>
<p>Stiles doesn't go into much detail about what he felt being possessed, what it meant to be that close to another creature, how they spent their time together, what it was like to watch the nogitsune die. His tone of voice and his scent say volumes, though; he smells as if he's remembering a lost mate, sounds as if the telling of this story hurts, bringing up memories of a better time, a happier time. </p>
<p>"Your wolf accepted me as your mate the first time you scented me," Stiles says. "And I knew -- it wasn't that soon for me, but it was definitely before I lit you on fire. I hadn't ignited then but I -- there was something in me that knew you'd be back. I could still feel you. My magic was still convinced, I guess, that you were there, that you weren't <i>dead</i>, just -- waiting, maybe. It's hard to describe. I shouldn't have gotten as close to the nogitsune as I did." </p>
<p>"I don't -- Stiles, I don't blame you," Peter says. </p>
<p>Stiles shakes his head, says, "No, I mean -- it should have been impossible. I was already creating bonds to you; I shouldn't have been physically or magically able to enter into a -- a communion like that."</p>
<p>That piques Peter's interest. He's read probably everything that exists on Sparks, remembers most of it, but even then, the accumulated knowledge of centuries doesn't amount to much. Sparks are creatures of legend and what's written about them reads like it. Hearing Stiles talk about creating bonds, of magical knowledge and physical boundaries, is fascinating. </p>
<p>"Did you ever figure out why you could?" Peter asks. </p>
<p>"Compatible souls," Stiles replies. "It's the only thing that makes sense. We may not have started off like that but the merging -- he was a thousand-year-old, nine-tailed Celestial nogitsune; you can't get more Spark-like than that, and he gave into it just as much as I did. We probably would've formed a familial bond if we'd met under other circumstances but the possession, the timing, our specific situation -- we twinned." </p>
<p>Twins. Fuck. </p>
<p>Peter drives on autopilot, tries to digest what he's just heard. Stiles' soul is twin to an ancient, nearly all-powerful chaos kitsune. Stiles lost his twin, watched it -- no, him; Stiles is right to call the nogitsune a 'him' instead of an 'it,' and Peter will learn to as well -- die at the mouth of his best friend, with his approval, wearing his body. </p>
<p>"You're a Spark with the soul of a Celestial kitsune," Peter says, into the silence. "And you let me <i>mate</i> you." </p>
<p>"I didn't let you do anything," Stiles says, mildly but definitely meaning it. "I don't know if you remember but I was right there with you every step of the way. I practically ordered you, Peter." </p>
<p>Peter knows, can still feel the grip of Stiles' hand around his throat, choking him as a punishment for taking too long to bite, can still taste Stiles' blood in his mouth, can still smell Stiles' pain as Peter gave in to the mating frenzy. </p>
<p>"Stiles," Peter says, searching for words even as he says them. "I'm not -- you aren't just --" </p>
<p>"Shut the fuck up," Stiles says, still with that mild tone of his voice. Spark-command lingers under the words, though, has Peter's throat clamming up, his tongue sitting heavy in his mouth. "I didn't tell you to impress you or scare you or whatever. I told you because I don't want to keep secrets from you. I claimed you, which means you're going to have dreams about me, about people who are or were important to me, about events in my life, places I've been, hopes I have for the future. It's supposed to bring us together, put us on more even footing. But I'll stop them if you're going to act like this every time you have one." </p>
<p>Peter thinks, in the ringing silence after Stiles is finished speaking. He can only imagine what he's going to see -- Scott, the sheriff, <i>Claudia</i>; Stiles' first day at school, the moment Stiles' ignited, that night in the preserve from Stiles' point of view; his mentor's home in the Valley, his mother's hospital room, his first visit to New Orleans; the house he wants, the places he wants to go, Peter, even, maybe. It's all going to be overwhelming. He wants it, though. He wants everything Stiles will give him, in every method he offers. </p>
<p>He gestures at his throat and it relaxes instantly. Peter swallows once and taps his tongue against the back of his teeth just to feel it move. He clears his throat, says, "I want the dreams." </p>
<p>Stiles nods, says, "Fine." </p>
<p>"I'm going to want to talk about them," Peter says. Stiles nods again, agrees again, and Peter says, "I can't know how I'll react and I'm not going to apologise for it." </p>
<p>"Fine," Stiles says. He opens the box of macarons, picks out a brown one, chocolate-on-chocolate, and shoves it in Peter's mouth before he takes a matcha-and-almond macaron for himself, nibbles around the edges, splits it in half, licks out the cream from the middle before eating the cookies. </p>
<p>Peter takes it as the peace offering it's meant to be, Stiles hand-feeding him and accepting Peter's offering, and keeps driving.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>They switch interstates a couple times. Neither of them say much as I-49 turns into I-20, as Louisiana gives way to Texas. They go through a drive-thru to pick up food, stop for gas and bathroom breaks twice, and don't talk much more than the situation demands. Peter's still caught on the dream, on what Stiles told him, on the idea that his mate's soul is as intimidating as his magic. Stiles, for his part, stares out the window, his scent reined in and tight with tension, their bond silent, pulled taut. Peter reaches for it once, gets his nose flooded with the reek of pomegranate juice and ambrosia, smiles to himself at the olfactory proof of its strength.</p>
<p>When Peter's pulling off the interstate in Tyler to fuel up, Stiles groans, says, "Tish. I gotta call Tish. Shit. I just wanna go <i>home</i>." </p>
<p>"So tell her we flew back," Peter suggests, pulling into the first gas station he sees. "Or that we had to go north. Or just tell her we aren't stopping and she's going to have to deal with it." </p>
<p>"Shouldn't," Stiles says. "I don't have an emissary bond with her anymore and the pack bond's probably gone as well. She deserves an explanation." </p>
<p>Peter parks beside a pump, turns the car off, twists in his seat to look at Stiles. "She doesn't deserve anything from you, Stiles. No, come on, look at me," he says, and sets his fingers on Stiles' shoulder, squeezes a little, lets his thumb trace the healing scabs where Peter ravaged Stiles' collarbone. "Stiles, I told you that I'd be honest with you even when you don't want to hear it," he says. "And this is me telling you: you don't owe her one fucking thing. If she's your friend, she'll understand that you've had a long week and want to go home. And if she's only an alpha you have a bond to, then she's not worth the explanation, only the notification." </p>
<p>"Friend," Stiles says, eyes fixed on Peter's lips, like it's easier to watch his mouth when he talks than look into his eyes. "Sort of. I mean, she's --it can be awkward with -- maybe we can make it quick. But I want to stop somewhere for the night. We're not in a hurry this time and we both could use a full night's sleep in a real bed." </p>
<p>"Call her while I fill the tank, then," Peter suggests, "and we'll find a hotel on our way to Dallas." He smiles abruptly, says, "Try and find somewhere that'll give us complimentary late check-out." </p>
<p>Stiles laughs, says, "And room service? Or are you gonna wine and dine me in downtown Dallas tonight?" </p>
<p>Peter's smile grows, can tell that it's turning fond but can't help it. "Anything you want, Stiles." </p>
<p>"Well, hurry up, then," Stiles says, returning the grin. He smells -- happy. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Werewolf hearing means that Peter can hear Stiles' conversation with Letitia; he only gets one out of every three of her words thanks to the limitations of technology and the fact that he's outside the car while Stiles is inside, but he's following Stiles' side of the call even as his eyes are watching the numbers on the pump tick up and up and up. </p>
<p>"We're in Tyler, I thought we could stop at the farm on our way through," Stile says. "No, we're not staying overnight. No, we're not hungry for dinner. No, Tish, we -- oh, really? That's nice but it doesn't matter. My answer's still no. Tish, we -- yeah, I get that, but -- Tish, will --" and then he snaps, says, "<i>Letitia</i>." A pause, something that sounds hurried, apologetic, from her end, and Stiles says, "Five minutes at the house and that's <i>it</i>. We'll see you there." </p>
<p>He ends the call, shoulders hunched in as he sighs and rubs his forehead. Stiles' scent leaks out of the car, a combination of exasperation and self-hatred, and Peter's wolf whines, high and thready, at the smell of its mate so upset. For his part, Peter detests the way that Stiles turns his emotions inward, always seems to blame himself for what he is and what that means to other people. It's most likely safer than giving his magic something external to focus on punishing, but that doesn't mean it's healthy or that Peter likes it.</p>
<p>Refueling done, Peter goes over to Stiles' side of the car, opens the passenger door and crouches down. "Want me to kill her?" he asks. </p>
<p>"No," Stiles says. "But thank you for offering." </p>
<p>"You'll let me know if you change your mind?" Peter asks. Stiles nods; Peter leaves it there, asks, "Anything you want from inside? Another Monster for my little monster?" </p>
<p>Stiles looks at him, reaches out and fits his hand to the curve of Peter's cheek. "I'm good," he says. "Got all I need right here." Peter flushes and Stiles laughs, leans forward and kisses Peter, a quick peck on the lips. "Nerd," Stiles says. "I mean it, though. You know that, right? That I --" </p>
<p>"That you love me?" Peter says, cutting Stiles off. "Yes, sweetheart. I do," and doesn't bother wasting words to say it back, not when Stiles can feel it through their bond, can see it written all over his face and in every move his wolf makes. He waits to see if Stiles is going to say anything else. When he doesn't, when he just looks at Peter, adoration written all over his expression and scent, Peter ruffles Stiles' hair, stands up. "Tell me where we're going and we'll get this done with," he says, closes Stiles' door and makes his way around the car. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Stiles called it a farm on the phone, referred to meeting Letitia at a house, but Peter can't help raising his eyebrow when he takes in the place. The farm's impressive, he guesses, for the area, though not in comparison to some of them in Iowa or Kansas, but the house is massive, would nearly qualify to be called an estate if it wasn't for the very thorough farmhouse aesthetic: white picket fence, red window shutters, wide front porch with swing, wood siding instead of brick in a colour that Peter can't tell is slate-grey or storm-blue.</p>
<p>"If it's decorated with cows inside, I'm going to vomit," Peter says evenly. He parks at the end of the driveway next to a Toyota minivan, three different pick-up trucks, and Joaquín's Mazda, takes a deep breath. "Five minutes," he tells Stiles. "We can stay outside. You don't have to tell her anything you don't want to. And if you change your mind about me killing her, just let me know." </p>
<p>"Outside, five minutes, murder is possible," Stiles says. "Got it." He sits there, ten seconds longer, then says, "Start the clock," as he gets out. </p>
<p>Stiles walks up to the front porch, to the woman standing at the bottom of the steps. It's not quite a meander and it's not really a prowl, but Stiles is very obviously resisting the urge to stalk up to Letitia, say his piece, and get out of there. Peter follows, can't help the way his lips curve as he watches Stiles' legs, his ass, the way he runs his hand through his hair and itches the back of his neck. </p>
<p>"River Alpha," Stiles says, sharp, as he comes to a stop ten steps away from her. "As promised, I'm stopping by on my way back to California." </p>
<p>"Spark," Letitia murmurs. She's clearly upset though Peter isn't sure if it's at Stiles' attitude or the fact that they aren't staying. "Thank you for your consideration." </p>
<p>Stiles narrows his eyes and Peter can see the instant that Stiles decides that if that's the way she wants to play it, then he'll follow her lead. "I'm here to tell you that I've broken our emissary bond and to ask that you check our pack bond, as well." </p>
<p>Letitia's eyes widen; she asks, "Is this because --" </p>
<p>"No," Stiles says. He turns, slightly, gestures to Peter. Peter comes forward, stands to Stiles' right. </p>
<p>"River Alpha," Peter says, and extends his wrist before Letitia can. She looks at him, startled, and inhales sharply when she sees his red eyes. She doesn't say anything right then, not to him or to Stiles when her eyes flick in Stiles' direction. Instead, she takes his hand, curls her fingers around his as she lifts his wrist, breathes in. Peter wonders what she smells, if she can trace out the scent of his myriad bonds to Stiles in and around his own natural scent, wonders if she can pick out how deep their mating and claiming bonds went, to fundamentally change Peter on every level. He wonders, mostly, how she's going to react and what this will mean for her future.</p>
<p>She closes her eyes as she inhales, brow furrowed, and when she's done, Letitia straightens up, stands tall, lets Peter's hand go and doesn't offer her own. "Alpha Hale," she says. "Congratulations. Hurt him and I'll kill you." Peter inclines his head. Letitia turns to Stiles, says, "This was your reason for going to New Orleans? You didn't think I'd be interested in knowing?" </p>
<p>Stiles gives her a cold-iron smile, says, "I didn't think it was any of your business." Letitia flinches; Peter would too if Stiles directed that tone at him. "Deucalion is dead. Peter killed him and tamed his power. He offered the emissary bond, I accepted, and then we mated. We're going to reclaim the Hale territory in Beacon Hills. As is his right as my alpha and mate, all correspondence to me from other shifters should now go through Peter." He smirks at her, says, "Good luck," and turns his back, heading for the car. </p>
<p>"Spark," Letitia calls out. Stiles stops, turns his head slightly -- not enough to look over his shoulder but enough to show that he's listening. "The Alliance's treaty is with you, not your mate or your pack. You'll have to renegotiate now that you're declaring yourself off-limits."</p>
<p>"You should reread the treaty," Stiles says, and continues making his way to the car. </p>
<p>Peter raises an eyebrow, purses his lips to keep from smiling. He glances at Letitia, nods once, and moves to follow Stiles. Letitia reaches out, takes Peter's wrist. He stops, looks down at her hand, looks back up at her, eyes red as his wolf snarls. "I know that no wolf can make a Spark do anything they don't want to," she says, "but if I find that you blackmailed him into this --." </p>
<p>She trails off, probably because Peter's started laughing. "Oh, <i>alpha</i>," he says. "If anyone here engaged in blackmail, it wasn't me. Just how well do you know Stiles?" </p>
<p>"We have a bond," she says. "It's still there. I may not be his alpha but I am his and I'll come running with the full force of Dallas behind me if he calls." </p>
<p>"We're all his," Peter says. "Some of us have learned when to leverage that to our advantage, and some of us are still too focused on what we belong to, rather than who and why."</p>
<p>Letitia scowls. "How much longer are you going to be in my territory, Alpha Hale?" </p>
<p>"Overnight," Peter says. "Stiles wants to sleep in a bed tonight, rather than stay in the car, and I'm inclined to cater to his every whim. Problem with that?" </p>
<p>"Be sure to leave," Letitia tells him, then nods once, sharply, and turns, stomps up the steps, goes inside the house and lets the door slam behind her. </p>
<p>Any other wolf, Peter wouldn't be concerned about a temper tantrum, but those can be dangerous on alphas and he doesn't want to know what a Dallas alpha might do in a flare of anger. He scented her, before, and she has power, bottomless and strong; she's the River Alpha, too,  and if she's as closely bonded to that element as he imagines, as she smelled, then her need to control runs deep. Her compassion and desire to help will also be forceful, though, and hopefully enough to get her over the anger quickly. </p>
<p>Her pack should be used to her by now, and her second and elders experienced enough to ride out the emotional response. She's not Peter's responsibility -- as alpha, she's not anyone's responsibility but her own -- and yet he feels like he should do something -- not apologise or soften the blows both he and Stiles landed on her in quick succession, but something. He blames his own wolf for wanting to smooth out ruffled fur but knows that's not enough to explain the drive to fix things; he's not one to care about others and his wolf shouldn't be this out of sorts. </p>
<p>It hits him when he turns and sees Stiles leaning one hip against the car, arms folded on his chest, eyes narrowed. Of course. <i>Everything of mine is part of everything of me</i>. Stiles claimed him, joined Peter to his magic, and Stiles is bonded to Letitia; they're all connected, all part of each other, to some degree, and Peter's feeling his own alpha and Stiles' magic together, might even be getting an echo of the feedback Stiles is getting through his bond with Letitia.</p>
<p>"We're going to need to fix that," Stiles says, once Peter gets closer to the car, even though Peter would have heard him just fine by the house. "Thank god you're only feeling other alphas." </p>
<p>Stiles sounds hesitant, a little, though there's a thread of challenge in his tone as well. Peter frowns, gets it when he realises: 'other alphas.' </p>
<p>"Scott," Peter says. "What's his bond feel like right now?" </p>
<p>"He's good about blocking himself off," Stiles says. Peter thought he was the only one that Scott kept out. It's worrying, hearing that Scott does that to everyone, isn't constantly keeping the bonds circling between him and his pack. "I was the one who taught him," Stiles says, "during the possession. I didn't want the nogitsune using the connection with Scott. Don't put much effort into our bond myself, to be honest." Peter narrows his eyes and Stiles rolls his. "He's not a good alpha, Peter," he says, "true or otherwise. That might change with time but right now he's a young bitten wolf who never wanted the Gift in the first place and he's too self-centred to be a good leader."</p>
<p>Blocking the bonds is not going to help Scott get over his self-obsession, either, and Peter would bet his life that Stiles knows that. "Are you undermining him on purpose?" he asks. "I can't see any other reason for letting him -- for <i>teaching</i> him to ignore his pack and his instincts as alpha." </p>
<p>Stiles snorts, says, "He does a good enough job ignoring his instincts on his own," which isn't an answer to Peter's question but might as well be. </p>
<p>Peter holds Stiles' gaze, runs through things to say, discards all of them, finally says, "Thank you," because Stiles might be doing it for himself, might have done it for the rest of the pack, but it benefits Peter the most and they both know it. "Shall we go, then?" </p>
<p>"Definitely," Stiles says. He brushes the back of his fingers over Peter's neck, lets Peter rub their cheeks together, and they get back in the car, leave the Bah'hatteno pack house behind them. As soon as they're on the road heading west towards Dallas, Stiles logs in to Expedia, scrolls through hotels for ten minutes. "This one has what looks like an awesome baby grand in the lobby," he says, "but The Joule has rainfall showerheads so that's where we're going. Um. If that's --" </p>
<p>"If that's where you want to stay," Peter tells him, "book the fucking room." </p>
<p>Stiles looks up, says, "The room's four-hundred bucks a night, Peter." </p>
<p>Peter glances over, says, "You're going to have to get used to it at some point, Stiles. I have a lot of money to spend and I like spending it. I'm going to want to spoil you. If that means ridiculously sweet macarons from a more bougie bakery than I would have ever imagined you in, that means macarons. If it means the Paris Ritz, it means the Paris Ritz." He takes a deep breath, says, "You accepted gifts before. You <i>demanded</i> some of them. What makes this so different?" </p>
<p>"Do you want to go to Paris?" Stiles asks. </p>
<p>"Do <i>you</i> want to go to Paris?" Peter replies. "Stiles, please. Tell me what has you smelling like you're not sure whether or not you should be here." </p>
<p>Stiles takes a deep breath, looks down at his phone long enough to book the room, though Peter doesn't know if Stiles does it through Expedia or the hotel's own website. Peter hears the email notification chime twice in rapid succession, feels a little better now that they have a bed for the night. He tries not to think about how they'll use it; Stiles has had a long day, looks and smells exhausted after dealing with the cats, with Letitia. "You know what I am now," Stiles says, tapping at his phone screen. "You can't -- I don't want to take advantage of what I am, both as a Spark and your mate. I know you want to spoil me, Peter. I just --." </p>
<p>"You don't want to make me," Peter guesses, once he knows that Stiles is done talking. "Stiles. I'm a wolf. An <i>alpha</i> wolf, and right now you're my only pack as well as my mate and my emissary. Consider yourself lucky I let you leave the bed this morning." </p>
<p>"You say that like you think you could've stopped me," Stiles says. "Even putting aside the fact that I'm a Spark, you'd let me up if I wanted." </p>
<p>Peter scoffs, says, "Remember that conversation we had, about not being good people? You love me. I'm a horribly manipulative person. I could've found a way." </p>
<p>Stiles grins; the scent of his discomfort fades, giving way to a wave of fresh appreciation. "Especially since I didn't particularly want to get up. Someday we're going to end up on opposite sides of an issue. Is it bad that I kind of want to see what happens when we do?" </p>
<p>"If you really wanted it, I'd give in," Peter says, "though don't believe I won't find a way to turn my capitulation into a bargaining chip. And don't think I won't know you expect it." </p>
<p>Not for the first time, Peter thanks a deity he doesn't believe in that Stiles is so perfect -- but maybe he'll have to give god a second chance, simply because there's no other way to explain Stiles, to explain Stiles' love for him and acceptance of him. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>They valet-park the car at The Joule; the bellhop takes out Peter's suitcase and Stiles' duffle bag as if they're filled with precious gems and priceless artifacts. It makes Stiles smile, a little, and the expression stays as they check in, as Peter charms the clerk into giving them late check-out and a credit for room service. Stiles leans against him in the elevator, holds his hand as the bellhop leads them to their room and leaves their bags in the bedroom. Peter tips the man and as soon as the bellhop leaves, Stiles runs into the bedroom, leaps for the bed, lets out a groan when he settles that goes zinging down Peter's spine. </p>
<p>"Oh my <i>god</i>," Stiles says, and wriggles himself in deeper, kicks off his shoes and toes off his socks, digs his heels into the pile of blankets at the end of the bed. "I'm never leaving. Remember that talk we had? Never leaving. You're going to have to peel me out of this bed tomorrow." </p>
<p>"Or we could stay a couple days," Peter suggests. It's not the first time he's considered it, thought about the possibilities of having a mini-honeymoon so they can enjoy their mateship before they go back to Beacon Hills and deal with the inevitable fallout that Peter's ascension to alpha will cause, to say nothing of their mating and Stiles' choice -- his magic's choice, anyway -- to become Peter's emissary. </p>
<p>The pack's begrudgingly accepted Stiles' friendship with Peter though most of them, Peter thinks, believe Stiles only puts up with Peter because of Peter's wealth of knowledge and experience. Stiles has let the misconception grow, has shepherded it on a little, even, and he's also made mention of Peter buying him dinner or the fancy coffees he likes, or new hiking boots, or ordering a custom mountain-ash baseball bat. Lydia's teased Stiles about having a sugar daddy; Stiles response to that was a thirty-five minute rant on how expensive medical treatment is, even with California state employee insurance, and how public employees should really be paid more in general. Peter had listened to every single word Stiles had said and quietly, later, made a donation to the sheriff's office that still has Stiles' father giving him narrowed eyes every time their paths cross. </p>
<p>Scott's not comfortable with all the time Stiles and Peter spend together -- in his less charitable moments, Peter thinks about Scott's possessiveness and the way he so casually expects people to be at his beck and call when he wants them, forgets about them every other time -- but, then again, Scott's not entirely comfortable with Stiles spending time with anyone other than him and Lydia. Peter wonders why Lydia gets a pass, chalks it up to the routine of memory, of Stiles' history with her and the way he still came when Scott called despite the years of a very public obsession. Scott's tried to stop Peter and Stiles from spending time together before, even went so far as to forbid Peter from having Stiles over for a few weeks, but either he didn't do the same to Stiles or Stiles didn't listen. Stiles came anyway. </p>
<p>Come to think of it, that was when Peter should have known that Stiles would press the issue of mating sooner rather than later. Even if Peter didn't know at the time that Stiles had a stronger tie to a different alpha, disobeying his pack's alpha should not have been so easy as it was. Only mates can do that with such alacrity -- mates and strong magic users. </p>
<p>Scott's going to be their biggest obstacle but Stiles has been hiding behind Scott's moral shield for long enough that Scott is not going to see him coming. The thought shouldn't make Peter's wolf rumble in happiness but it does. </p>
<p>"Gotta get home before my dad freaks out," Stiles says, pulling Peter from his thoughts. "But you mentioned Paris earlier and I don't think you meant Texas or Kentucky. You -- you meant it? France?"</p>
<p>"Anywhere you want," Peter says.</p>
<p>Stiles sits up, says, "I know I said I was hungry, but can we have sex first? I'd really like to fuck right now." </p>
<p>He shows off his arm, runs his fingers over the bite Peter left last night -- has it only been one day? -- and the scent of his want, pure and sexual and <i>dripping</i> with heat, starts to taint the air. Peter's lip curls, showing off his teeth, and he forces himself to bend down, take off his shoes and socks slowly, control in every flex of every muscle. It's a large room, one of the largest suites in the hotel, but Stiles' arousal starts to fill it, expanding out in every direction; Peter knows that his is as well, is mixing with that salt-and-pomegranate smell he's already addicted to, is combining in such a way and so strongly that they'll never get the smell out of the walls, will never get the scent-impressions of their inevitable mating off the glass or carpet or bed frame. </p>
<p>"How do you want me?" Peter asks, stalking toward the bed. A wave of Stiles' scent flares out; Stiles' pupils are blown-wide, his lips parted, breathing rate a little faster than normal as he's fixed on the sight that Peter makes. </p>
<p>"How do -- how do you want <i>me</i>?" Stiles says in response. He shifts, sits up on spread knees, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt, looking for all the world like a young, skittish virgin.</p>
<p>Peter knows what Stiles is doing, knows that Stiles knows he knows, but he can't help the growl building in his throat. The tremour in Stiles' voice, the way he's got his head tilted so his neck's on full display, the shy glance upwards through his eyelashes, the nervousness he's faking with his hands, the tang of blood in the air as he bites his lower lip, the thud of his pulse -- it's pure bait to Peter's wolf. </p>
<p>"Off the bed," Peter says. "Strip." </p>
<p>Stiles slides off the covers, clambers to his feet and makes a show of being awkward about it, as if he's never done something like this before. Peter's not convinced -- it's too good of a show to be something new -- but his wolf is, is circling restlessly inside of Peter, panting in want. He waits, watches, with his hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms, as Stiles unbuttons his shirt slowly, glancing at Peter as he shrugs it off and lets it fall to the floor. Stiles is still wearing the marks from Peter's frenzy this morning; his shoulder's scabbed up, as have the claw marks on his hips, but they smell fresh, just like the bruises covering his collarbone, his sides. </p>
<p>Peter could close the distance between them, fit his mouth to the hickies and find a perfect match, could splay his hands out over Stiles' ribs and find the imprint of his own fingers waiting for him. It makes him ache, seeing his marks on Stiles, and does nothing to calm the wolf even though seeing the marks on its mate, smelling the imprint of itself all over Stiles, should settle the wolf. </p>
<p>His eyes fix on Stiles' fingers as they pop the button on Stiles' jeans, pull down the zipper. Stiles pauses, then shimmies his way out of his jeans, kicks them off to the side, stands there in his boxer-briefs -- black, showing off so brilliantly against Stiles' pale, Spark-lit skin -- with his hands moving restlessly, as if they're trying to decide what to cover, what to hide. "These too?" Stiles asks, quiet, almost a whisper, as he lets one nail trace over the waistband of his underwear. </p>
<p>"<i>Definitely</i>," Peter says, half purr and half snarl. He palms his own cock through his jeans, watches as Stiles bites his lip again, worrying at the skin until it swells, then breaks, one small bead of blood welling up. Stiles licks it away, pushes down his underwear, cock springing up, free from the constraints of cotton. Peter's eyes don't know whether to fix on the way Stiles pushes the black cotton down his long, lean legs, or the way Stiles' dick, growing harder by the second, it seems, juts up into the air. He tries to watch everything, even the way Stiles' eyes have gone white, the way his pulse is starting to speed up, the way he's trembling with the force of his self-control, wanting to reach out and <i>take</i> but sticking to their game. </p>
<p>"What now?" Stiles asks. </p>
<p>Peter smiles, hears as Stiles' heart skips a beat. It's not a nice smile -- it's hard, hungry, maliciously desperate -- but Stiles wants it, <i>sways</i> for it. "On your knees," Peter says, in a tone of voice that matches his expression. </p>
<p>Stiles drops. He drops <i>hard</i>.</p>
<p>He's never had a lover as responsive as Stiles, as willing to play the games Peter likes. It could be a function of their bond but Stiles has always had a wicked mind and has never been shy about what he likes. Some of their conversations, a lot of their jokes, would have scandalised more vanilla types, and knowing that Stiles is a Spark adds a certain amount of sense to what Peter assumed before was just a brain filled with porn and a history of unimaginative partners. Sparks are vicious things, yes, and have never shied away from the darker side to life, but they're also brutally honest with themselves about what they want, what they need, what they find important. Stiles might not like what he is but he <i>knows</i> what he is; Peter's learning as well, as quickly as he can. </p>
<p>Stiles wants boundaries. He lives in a state of utter self-control and never allows himself to let go of that control. He likes blood and pain and chasing his own pleasure. He's so concerned about making sure he doesn't override the free will of others that his own is sometimes constrained. He <i>aches</i> to give himself over to someone he can trust, someone that won't use him, that won't betray him, that will keep him safe and protect him and love him even when he drops the pretense of humanity and shows the full, terrifying, <i>awesome</i> power of a Spark.</p>
<p>And he's chosen Peter. He's claimed Peter in a way that only Sparks can, has found Peter worthy and then made him even more so, and now he's kneeling there, naked in front of Peter, bare down to the inner light of his magic, tremours chasing their way up and down his body with every second that Peter remains silent and unmoving. </p>
<p>Peter, still mostly dressed, crosses the distance between them, bends down and traces his thumb over Stiles' bitten-raw lower lip. "Oh, Stiles," he murmurs. "You're so beautiful like this." Stiles closes his eyes instead of turning away and Peter tsks, says, "Someday you'll believe me when I tell you that, I swear it, even if it takes the rest of my life. Now, open your mouth for me, dear-heart." </p>
<p>It's the work of a moment to undo his jeans, push them lower onto his hips with his underwear following. He's hard and already leaking with it, and Peter rubs his cock  and pre-come across Stiles' lips before guiding himself inside Stiles' mouth. </p>
<p>Stiles is -- he tilts his head back, relaxes his throat, lets Peter push all the way in and starts shedding tears after some harsh, punishing thrusts. The Spark-light inside of Stiles starts to find its way to the air around them and it growls, a low rumble of warning that echoes against Peter's skin. Peter pauses on his next pull out, wonders what it says about him that the edge of danger hasn't affected his erection, has, in fact, only made him harder. He thinks it has a little to do with the fact that Stiles is holding his magic back from defending him, that Stiles has <i>chosen</i> to choke on Peter's cock, cry, let drool start running out the corners of his mouth the same way that snot's starting to fall out of his nose, and his magic's rearing up to attack a target that Stiles has deemed off-limits, has nothing else to do but grow and grow and grow, useless, chained to Stiles' will. He knows it has a lot to do with the fact that Stiles breaks character long enough to get his hands on Peter's thighs, tug Peter back and put his lips around Peter's dick. </p>
<p>"God, will you just," Stiles says, licking and sucking like a man possessed. "Taste so fucking -- love it when you trust me enough to just <i>take</i> what you --"</p>
<p>Peter cuts him off by shoving his cock back down Stiles' throat. The air around them turns hot with sunshine, burns Peter's skin with dazzling luminescence, and he tangles his hands in Stiles' hair. The wolf urges him on to claim their mate, take him and leave his throat raw and their come in his belly, to fill him up and wear him out, and Peter -- Peter gives in, the way he's never allowed himself to before, the way he did yesterday morning, to let in the beast and trust in the Spark to stop him if he goes too far. He's never been able to do that with a human lover, always has to be careful, considerate, gentle himself and his own desires because a human's idea of harder and faster is nothing to a wolf. </p>
<p>But Stiles -- Stiles is a Spark and his mate beside, and they're tied to each other through bond and claim and blood. The wolf would never be able to hurt Stiles and Stiles can stop Peter whenever he wants, stop him from moving, from wanting, from <i>breathing</i>, and so the fact that he's kneeling there, just as desperate as Peter, just as <i>into</i> this as Peter, giving himself up just as actively as Peter's taking, it goes right to the part of Peter's hindbrain that he's kept locked up his entire life. </p>
<p>He snarls, forces Stiles' mouth wider, pulls hard on Stiles' hair, and the next time Stiles' nose bumps Peter's skin, Peter holds him there, grinds in, lets his eyes flash and then stay red. He looks down, sees Stiles looking back up, meeting Peter's gaze even as Stiles starts to try gasping for air. "<i>Mine</i>," Peter growls. He reaches down for Stiles' neck, wants to dig his claws in and leave his mate bleeding, but his hand hits coruscating magic, can't make contact with skin. Stiles' eyes flare supernova, the room whites out around Peter, and he clenches his eyes shut as he comes, spilling hot and thick down Stiles' throat. </p>
<p>Peter stumbles back, nearly loses his balance and falls over but he hits the wall first, uses it as a guide to slide down to the floor. "Jesus," he breathes. "Stiles. What the <i>fuck</i>." </p>
<p>Stiles sits back on his heels, grabs for his shirt and wipes off his face as he coughs and catches his breath. "Good 'what the fuck' or bad 'what the fuck?'" he asks, voice rough "Gonna have to -- gonna have to be a little more specific, Peter." </p>
<p>"I can't even <i>touch</i> your neck," Peter says. "Your magic -- I felt your magic, it stopped me completely, like running into a brick wall. How is that even possible?" </p>
<p>"I'm a Spark," Stiles says. He shrugs, lists to one side, ends up doing a form of crab-walk so that he can lean against the bed, let it hold him up the way the wall's holding up Peter. "And magic -- if it's strong enough, magic can turn corporeal. You know that. You touched our bond; it's not that different." He pauses, blinks back the white in his eyes, asks, hesitantly, "Are you -- did I -- good or bad 'what the fuck?'" </p>
<p>His scent's gone dusty, dry, the blank and empty air of an isolated desert. Peter pulls himself together enough to crawl over to Stiles, sit next to him, set his hand on Stiles' thigh. "Good," Peter says. "Sorry. I just wasn't expecting it. Any of it." He stops himself, takes a deep breath. "I think you fucked my mind loose for a second." Stiles snorts and his scent dampens a little, starts to return to what Peter's determined is baseline-normal. "You're going to be the death of me." </p>
<p>Stiles leans his head against Peter's arm. The touch of his skin, the brush of his hair, sends goosebumps chasing each other down Peter's skin. "So it was good," Stiles says. He still smells faintly of secrets, of quietude. "Right? I was -- it was okay?" </p>
<p>"More than," Peter says. "The sex was amazing and you were -- are -- perfect. Not just <i>good</i> or <i>okay</i>." Stiles shifts, doesn't say anything. "Stiles. Dear one. Did you by chance notice the colour of my eyes?" </p>
<p>"Red," Stiles says. "You had your claws out near the end, too." </p>
<p>Peter turns his hand palm-up, lets his claws out again. Stiles reaches down, traces the edges and points and curves carefully. "I've never let my wolf out in the middle of sex," he says. "I've never lost control, I've never been tempted, it's never been a struggle. But you -- your mouth, the game, your submission -- Stiles, I didn't have a chance. And you enjoyed it enough to rein in your magic. Your magic fought you to the point of <i>manifestation</i> and you didn't stop me. You pulled me in closer."</p>
<p>It takes Stiles a moment to answer, a moment during which he continues playing with Peter's claws. It's not a curious action, not worrying, nothing except the casual acceptance of a lover completely comfortable with their partner and in need of the physical reassurance of touch. "You're going to convince me that being a Spark has its benefits," Stiles says. He speaks quietly, as if he's finally admitting something to himself that he used to think was a lie but can't resist the truth of any longer. "I wish the magic didn't want to fight you but it means I can handle your alpha. It means that you won't need to hold back. I like it when you don't hold back, Peter. I like that you can be yourself around me. I just wish --." </p>
<p>He stops there. Peter moves his hand, runs his claws across the mating bite on Stiles' arm. "You're not going to scare me away," Peter says. "Be yourself. Keep your scent out, keep your eyes out, use your real voice, speak your thoughts. Don't force emotion you don't feel. Don't tell me things you think I need to know unless you want me to know them. Keep the dreams from me until you're ready for me to have them." He twines their fingers together, says, "I said I wanted to know the truth of you. I mean it, Stiles."</p>
<p>"I don't deserve you," Stiles finally says. There's a subtle glow coming from underneath his skin, a lambent luminescence that doesn't flare up and doesn't die down even as the silent moments stretch by. Peter thinks that maybe, just maybe, this is the way Stiles always looks, or always should look, when he isn't suppressing his magic. This is Stiles' normal. </p>
<p>"I feel the same way about you," Peter says, "so let's agree to disagree for now and come back to the discussion in, oh, fifty years or so when we've gathered enough evidence to decide who's right." Stiles chuckles, a broken, wet little sound, but it's halfway a laugh so Peter takes it as a win. "Now. Would you like me to return the rather generous favour you've done me? Or would you rather eat?" </p>
<p>Stiles lets out a deep breath, says, "I think maybe I just want to go to bed." </p>
<p>"Lucky for you," Peter says, "there's a giant one just behind us."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peter wakes up, stretches. The bed beside him is empty, still warm though it feels magicked that way rather than a natural result of Stiles having just gotten up. Peter's not precisely sure how he knows that but he's pleased that Stiles thought about it, took the time to use his magic in such a prosaic yet meaningful way, and he smiles when he thinks about a future filled with little gestures like this. He sits up, sees Stiles, still naked, with one hand on the large window facing Main Street, looking down and out over The Joule's little strip of downtown. </p>
<p>"How would you feel about breakfast on the balcony?" Peter asks, admiring the angles of Stiles' hips and shoulders, the curve of his ass. </p>
<p>"We'd have to get dressed," Stiles says. "Though I suppose one of us would at least have to put on pants to let room service in. Might as well be both of us." </p>
<p>He turns and Peter sees that the diffused light around him isn't entirely from the sun outside. Stiles' eyes are white, as well, and there's a tiny smile on his mouth, not the large one that Peter would have expected, judging from the tease. Stiles is being himself and Peter aches with happiness to see it. Stiles crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bed closest to Peter, runs those long, slender fingers over Peter's belly. Anyone else and the wolf would've snarled the moment that hand touched skin, but Stiles is his -- their -- mate, and anything Stiles wants, Stiles gets. </p>
<p>"How hungry are you?" Peter asks. "Am I going to see a replay of yesterday's lunch?" </p>
<p>"That was so much food," Stiles groans, tangling his fingers in the hair leading down from Peter's navel. "God, I actually can't remember the last time I ate that much in one sitting. Probably the last time I was there; putting up wards makes me hungry." </p>
<p>Peter grins, reaches up and curls his knuckles across Stiles' cheekbone. "You'll have to do the wards around the preserve," he says. "You'll make them stronger than Deaton ever did. I'll be sure to --." He trails off, seeing something move in Stiles' eyes, scenting a sudden flash-flare of hate in Stiles' smell. "Deaton never put up wards, did he," Peter guesses. </p>
<p>Stiles' lip curls. "<i>Druids</i>," he says, and the way he says it makes the word sound like a curse. "Why anyone would trust a druid as their emissary is beyond me." He glances at Peter, says, "I warded the territory when I ignited. Not enough that anyone would notice, so I'd like to go back and put up real ones, but real ones will mean a higher level of awareness of what's coming in and out." </p>
<p>"I want them strong like the Consilium's," Peter says. "Tighter, if that's possible. No one in or out without us knowing -- without me knowing, because you probably already do -- and deadly enough to kill if we require it." </p>
<p>Stiles looks at him, silent and weighing Peter's words for long, silent minutes. He finally nods, just once, doesn't say anything in agreement, but he smells pleased and just a little bit proud. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>They decide to go out for Tex-Mex, so Peter checks out while Stiles waits for the car outside, alongside their bellhop. Stiles is wearing sunglasses, has his head tilted up to the sun like he's drinking it in, and Peter keeps glancing out the window, eyes going back to Stiles at every chance like a compass needle seeking out the north. </p>
<p>"You're very lucky," the receptionist tells Peter, handing his credit card back along with a copy of the receipt. "He's beautiful." </p>
<p>Peter narrows his eyes but he can't smell anything other than honest admiration from the girl, so he nods, finally, and says, "He is, and I am." </p>
<p>He's still thinking about that when he goes out to join Stiles, takes Stiles' hand in his. Even like this, without the full range of his scent or the subtle light beneath his skin on display, Stiles is exceptionally beautiful, some Renaissance angel formed from brushstrokes given life, like god kissed breath into him and left the mark of it written all over Stiles' skin. Peter wonders if all Sparks balance on the edge of otherworldly or if it's just Stiles, if it's some combination of Spark magic and Celestial soul, or if Peter's just blinded because he's so much in love. </p>
<p>The car comes and Peter takes a second to let his fingertips trail across Stiles' skin when they part. Stiles looks at him, a small, private smile playing on his lips. </p>
<p>When they're in the car, pulling away from the hotel, Stiles shows Peter his phone screen, the Yelp page of 'Best Tex-Mex Restaurants in Dallas,' and asks, "Any preferences?"</p>
<p>"I thought we'd go home through Oklahoma," Peter says, "so closer to Carrollton, unless there's somewhere you'd like to go in Arlington or Fort Worth; we can always catch 35-West going up."</p>
<p>Stiles scrolls a little bit more, taps a few times, and finally says, "Got one," and plugs the address into Google Maps. "With redfish tacos on the menu." </p>
<p>Peter checks the turn-by-turn, makes a note of the highway exit. "You don't eat like this at home," he says. "Duck and redfish and crab dip. Is that because of your father or is it part of blending in?" </p>
<p>"What kid my age eats duck and redfish and crab dip?" Stiles asks. "I mean, Jackson's set, sure, but I was raised for the most part by a single dad employed by the state. It's not a hardship; I like burgers and curly fries and pancakes, too. I just like indulging when I can and," he adds, turning a mischievous look on Peter, "now I have a mate who likes to spoil me." </p>
<p>"You could have told me," Peter says, quietly, as he merges onto the highway. "I would've -- before, I mean." </p>
<p>Stiles shrugs. "I know," he says. He glances at Peter, lets out a sigh, says, "Peter, it's not that big a deal, okay? It's just food. I get that wolves find comfort in providing for their mates and you always did. You still do. You've been an excellent provider and it's not your fault that I'm used to keeping secrets. Now you know. Besides, you brought me pizza from that little place on Main Street all the time and we both know they use the best cheese in town, and you know my coffee order and what kind of pasta I like and --" </p>
<p>Peter cuts Stiles off despite the disgruntled whine from his wolf at the action, says, "But that's the thing, Stiles. I <i>don't</i> know your coffee order. I <i>don't</i> know what kind of pasta you like. I know what the you who's been hiding likes. What if they aren't the same?" </p>
<p>"And what if they are?" Stiles asks. "What if  I was always my most real self with you? What if I gave you more of me than anyone else? Peter, I knew you'd decided to mate me and I knew I was going to claim you. Why would I bother hiding anything but the most Spark-like parts of me? So you didn't know I like duck; it's not that fucking important. Stop being so insecure."</p>
<p>There's no command in the words but the rebuke is intense and goes right to Peter's gut. Stiles is right; he's acted differently when they're alone together, always seemed a little harder, a little more tired, a little more explicit in his requests, preferred strong black coffee and gnocchi and margherita pizzas and Indian to the sugared monstrosities and spaghetti and pepperoni and Chinese he chose around others. Peter never questioned it, thought it was just Stiles wanting something different, a little variety, but apparently those are his real preferences. Peter thinks back to the look on Stiles' face at his first sip of the diner's adderall-brew coffee, can't help the smile. </p>
<p>"I think I'm always going to be a little insecure around you," Peter confesses. "But that's less a Spark-thing and more of a mate-thing. Intellectually, I know that we're bound, that you're in this as much as I am. The wolf -- I wasn't lying the other day, Stiles. You're my mate; I'm always going to want to please you and I'm always going to worry that I'm not."</p>
<p>"I'll tell you if you fall short," Stiles says, tone dry. "Although you spent nearly three hundred bucks at Sucré yesterday, so I'd be less worried about falling short and more worried about me getting fat if you keep this up." </p>
<p>Peter laughs, can't help it. "You run too much to get fat," he says. "A little extra meat on your bones wouldn't be a bad idea; you're skinny enough as it and you'll be working off even more calories now." Stiles looks at him, eyebrow raised, and Peter's eyes trail down Stiles' body, linger on his crotch, climb back up. Stiles is grinning when Peter meets his eyes again. </p>
<p>"Maybe two orders of tacos," Stiles says. "Just so I'm prepared." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>They eat -- Stiles only gets one order of tacos but they split a giant plate of nachos first and an order of sopapillas after -- and get back on the road, heading generally north on the highway toward Oklahoma City. The atmosphere inside the car's quiet, comfortable, and Stiles eventually falls asleep as they cross the Red River. Peter doesn't mind -- he's never needed much sleep, even as a child, which drove his parents crazy but suited him well in high school. Stiles' phone lights up a couple times but doesn't make any noise; Stiles sleeps through it and Peter doesn't feel like disturbing him. Peter's phone goes off, though, about forty-five minutes later, and that does wake Stiles up. </p>
<p>"Sorry," Peter murmurs, before accepting the call through the car's bluetooth. "This is Peter." </p>
<p>"Peter, it's Derek." </p>
<p>Stiles sits up, looks wide awake eerily quickly, and looks at Peter. Peter glances back, says, "What can I do for you, nephew?" </p>
<p>Derek huffs. "Stiles is missing," he says. "He's been gone for -- no one's seen him in the last couple days and he's not answering his phone. We tracked his scent to your house but he's not there and you're not there and it smells like you left at the same time. What've you done with him? Where are you?" </p>
<p>"How long?" Peter asks. Derek makes a noise, Peter says, "How long since anyone's seen him?" </p>
<p>"Lydia thinks it's been a week," Derek says, "and the scent outside of your house is a few days old. The sheriff saw him six days ago but he's been working doubles most days and the times they'd both be at home don't overlap. Scott thinks he saw Stiles on Wednesday but he's not sure." </p>
<p>Stiles snorts, asks, "Where did Scott say he saw me, Derek? School? Even though Lydia's sure I haven't been there all week?" His voice -- there's a timbre to his voice that speaks to him being more than human but not quite the Spark. </p>
<p>"Are you okay?" Derek asks. "Where are -- why haven't you been answering the phone? Scott's called twice this afternoon."</p>
<p>"He's been sleeping," Peter says. Stiles looks at him; Peter shrugs, asks, "Did you need something?" </p>
<p>There's silence on Derek's end, then he asks, "Stiles. You swear you're all right? That Peter -- that you're okay? Lydia's been worried; she said you've been sick and that you should be in bed, but it sounds like you're in the car." </p>
<p>"I'm fine," Stiles says. "And I was sick but I'm better. Once I got out of bed, I asked Peter to take me down to a bookstore in San Francisco; they supposedly have a copy of a grimoire that I've had on my wishlist for months but it was closed when we got there so we've been hanging out until the owner gets back, which should be first thing in the morning."</p>
<p>Peter's fascinated by the way Stiles sounds -- like he usually does around the rest of the pack, no blip to his heartbeat -- and looks -- still like a Spark, white eyes and hardened expression, nothing that matches the lighthearted ramble he's offering to Derek. It's like watching a masterclass in 'how to lie to werewolves.'</p>
<p>"And then you'll be back?" Derek asks. </p>
<p>"Yeah, probably," Stiles says. "Peter's making noise about showing me this place he likes for lunch but we'll try to be home tomorrow evening unless I get distracted." </p>
<p>Peter can hear a subvocal growl from Derek, something that Stiles wouldn't be able to pick up. He makes a motion to his throat, rolls his eyes. "Good," Derek says. "Stop by the loft on your way." </p>
<p>"Aw, Derek," Stiles coos. "Did you miss me? Have you been worried?" </p>
<p>"Scott's been worried," Derek says. "Drive safe." </p>
<p>He hangs up. Stiles shifts in his seat, pulls up his legs and rests his cheek on his knees, head tilted to face Peter. "Let me guess," Stiles says. "Lie about Scott." </p>
<p>"Your alpha didn't even know you were missing?" Peter asks. </p>
<p>"Not my alpha," Stiles says. "Never really has been. My bond to Tish has always been stronger and that was formed when Derek was still alpha. Scott didn't really have a chance but I'm a Spark so I forced it just enough that it'd be there if he went looking." He pauses, says, "I wonder who tracked my scent and why." </p>
<p>Peter glances over, says, "You have a theory." </p>
<p>"I bet it was Derek, at Lydia's behest," Stiles says. "And I bet they never mentioned it to Scott until they got desperate." </p>
<p>It's an interesting dynamic, to say the least: the alpha who doesn't even want to be a wolf, much less in charge of a pack; the banshee; the born wolf. If Lydia's worried, then her going to Derek rather than Scott says a lot about her, but if Derek listened to her and acted on her concern without telling Scott, well. That says a great deal about their pack. </p>
<p>"I've been meaning to ask how you want this to play out," Peter says. "Letting them know I'm an alpha and telling them about your position in my pack, reclaiming Hale territory, even about you being a Spark, if you want. Do you have plans for this, Stiles?" </p>
<p>"No plan," Stiles says. "A couple of thoughts but no plan. What about you? You're the alpha; they're the ones in your territory." </p>
<p>Peter curls his lip. "Vindictively speaking," he says, "I'd love for you to walk in with white eyes and me to walk in with red, and then tell them all to bare the throat, leave, or die."</p>
<p>Stiles snorts, says, "You mean give them an ultimatum that will most likely force us to kill a few of them." Peter glances at him, eyebrow raised, and Stiles says, "What about that was a lie, Peter." </p>
<p>He's not wrong. Derek would probably already be on his belly, seeing Stiles with Spark-lit eyes, and he'd do whatever he thought would make Stiles happiest, no matter if that was baring the throat, leaving, killing, committing suicide right then and there. Derek longs for an alpha, wants a real pack, and deserves to be cherished; if he gives into Peter, he'd get all three from both an alpha and a Spark. Lydia possesses a remarkably strong sense of self-preservation and even if she didn't want to bare the throat, she's pragmatic enough to do so if her life was in balance. She might even respond unconsciously to Stiles' power like other magic users, being drawn to the Spark and deferential to its status. They were tethered at one point, as well, Peter can't forget that, and it's possible that Stiles has been consciously or unconsciously using their connection to influence her. </p>
<p>The others -- well. No big loss. Getting rid of them wouldn't even take long, and they'd be able to move on and ward the territory.</p>
<p>Peter's not even exaggerating. With Isaac and Argent gone, Allison and Aiden dead, and Peter and Stiles mated and ready to take control of the territory, there aren't many left. Scott, the true alpha, still ostensibly in charge, and protective of his new kitsune girlfriend, will be the biggest obstacle. Kira's not one to underestimate, especially as she's untrained and new to this world, doubly so if she's been indoctrinated by her mother and her boyfriend into thinking the worst of Peter and Stiles -- though there's always the chance that Noshiko would react properly to a Spark, even one with a twin soul to the nogitsune she tried to kill, and would force her daughter into doing the same. Ethan's a wolf and Malia's a coyote; they'll roll over for Stiles in a heartbeat, whether they understand what he is or not. </p>
<p>And that's everyone -- everyone that matters. Scott will leave and take his mother with him. Stiles doesn't care about his father. Peter's going to rip Deaton apart cell by cell to punish him for ever thinking he'd be able to kill Stiles. </p>
<p>"Maybe we should," Peter says, thoughtfully. "Not to the pack at large, but one by one. Give them each a chance in private." </p>
<p>"In case we do have to kill them," Stiles says, following Peter's train of thought. "Who do you think we should start with?" </p>
<p>Peter doesn't even have to think. "Derek," he says. "Then Lydia. Ethan and Malia can't keep secrets to save their lives and Noshiko might say something to Kira, who doesn't strike me as being particularly close-mouthed." Stiles snorts, shakes his head at Peter's raised eyebrow. "Scott last, obviously. I'll be curious to see if he even notices his bonds breaking." </p>
<p>Stiles hums, thoughtful, and reaches into the backseat, rummages around for one of the Sucré boxes, retrieves it with a noise of triumph and promptly shoves two marshmallows in his mouth. He chews obnoxiously, nearly chokes at one point, and swallows with a sigh of complete happiness. "Want one?" he asks, picking another out of the box, offering it to Peter. "Since you paid for them and everything," Stiles adds, grinning. "Seems only right to share the deliciousness." </p>
<p>Peter takes the marshmallow from Stiles, lets his fingers graze Stiles' as he does, and is gratified to scent the sudden rush of desire wafting over from the passenger seat. Stiles always smells at least faintly of arousal but without the block on his scent, it's deeper, richer, an invitation rather than a mere notification. It also, now that they've mated, carries overtones of ambrosia and undertones of pomegranate, an aroma that Peter's quickly associating with blood and come and complete satiation. </p>
<p>The marshmallow's sweet in comparison, all light-spun sugar and hints of vanilla bourbon. Peter hums, thoughtful, says, "It's good," when he's swallowed the last bit of it. "Though I prefer savoury and bitter, rather than overly sweet." </p>
<p>"Explains why you like to bite me," Stiles comments. </p>
<p>Peter laughs, can't help it. "Quite bitter," he says. Stiles reaches over to shove him and they approach the southern suburbs of Oklahoma City laughing together. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>They change highways and stop for a gas and bathroom break on the western limits of Oklahoma City, then for dinner at a barbeque joint in Amarillo, even though Peter rolls his eyes and says it's clichéic. Stiles gets sauce all over his face, neck, and shirt, Peter eats a rack of ribs that are better than any other he's ever had, and they make it across the border into New Mexico and close to Santa Rosa before Peter admits defeat. </p>
<p>"I need sleep," he says, then yawns as if to prove the point. "Just for a few hours." </p>
<p>"What are the odds you'll let me drive?" Stiles asks, an impish smile written all over his face. He laughs once, shakes his head, at whatever expression Peter's making, and says, "S'fine. Think you can make it to Albuquerque?" Stiles asks. "At the pace you're driving, we should get there in, like, forty-five minutes, and if you keep this speed up tomorrow, we'll be able to get home from there in fourteen or fifteen hours. We can find a motel room for the night, maybe get a late-night snack?" He taps at his phone a few times, says, "Obviously nothing as nice as The Joule, but there are some <i>real</i> kitschy spots, looks like." </p>
<p>Peter snorts and says, "Call me a snob if you want, but at least make sure the place looks clean, please."</p>
<p>Stiles looks at him as though he's said something interesting, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. Peter's on the verge of asking but Stiles just shakes his head and goes back to his phone, piping up a moment later to say, tone full of teasing laughter, "Nothing less than a Hilton, I take it?"</p>
<p>He thinks about rolling his eyes but Stiles is his mate, deserves both the truth and the world laid out at his feet, so Peter says, "<i>You</i> deserve nothing less than a Hilton." </p>
<p>"And people thought I was a spoiled brat before," Stiles mutters. The  wolf snarls and Peter wastes a full minute wrestling it under control, pushing back the urge to tear apart anyone who's so much as <i>hinted</i> that they <i>might</i> believe something ridiculous like that. Stiles is one of the least spoiled people Peter's ever met and even if he was, he <i>deserves</i> it. "Peter, just --," Stiles starts, stops, finally just shrugs one shoulder like he has no idea what he was going to say. </p>
<p>"Humans are stupid," Peter says, once it's clear that Stiles doesn't have anything more to add. He takes a deep breath, says, "And if anyone wants to pin the blame on someone, I'll take responsibility." Stiles tilts his head in silent question and Peter tries to keep his voice light. "I spent six years in a state-run hospital. Before that, I lived among a pack that didn't trust me simply because of my position. I'm going to spoil you and use that as an excuse to give myself some luxury at the same time. We both deserve it, dear-heart, and fuck everybody else." </p>
<p>Stiles' scent turns tight, mournful, like cold rain and frigid wind, something deep and vast and <i>primal</i> underneath. "Nothing less than a Hilton, then," he agrees, and even as he's shifting to prop up the phone in his lap, scrolling with one hand, he reaches out his other hand, twines his fingers in with Peter's, squeezes gently and holds tight. </p>
<p>Peter doesn't let go.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Stiles directs him to another valet stand, this time outside of -- and Peter smiles -- a Hilton. It's one of the special collection hotels though, done up in an old Andalusian style, with built-in archways and bright colours, tile mosaics and the smell of tapas wafting through the air, shrimp and bacon and tomatoes mixing with the tang of berried sangria. </p>
<p>They check in with little fanfare and make their way up to a suite, Stiles dropping his bag and immediately going to the window, pressing his face up against the glass. Peter spends more time looking around, taking in what Stiles decided on: the copper tub, the fireplace, the custom flooring and panoramic view. His wolf practically <i>purrs</i> as Peter runs his hand over the bedspread and feels nothing but airy softness under his touch, comforter lighter like clouds. He goes over to Stiles, then, and pulls Stiles against his chest, wraps his arms around Stiles' waist and rests his chin on Stiles' shoulder. </p>
<p>"Good enough?" Stiles asks, archly, but Peter can scent the worry riding Stiles. </p>
<p>He barely stops himself from turning to nuzzle Stiles' neck. "Perfect," he says, instead, and curves his neck so that he can rub his nose against the scabs on Stiles' shoulder. "Though the receptionist mentioned something about a rooftop bar." </p>
<p>Stiles wriggles in Peter's hold, turning around and pressing a quick kiss to Peter's lips. "A couple drinks and then room service?" </p>
<p>There's no point in asking if they'll let Stiles stay or if he has a fake ID that would pass muster; not only does Stiles expel more magic with every breath than most people will ever experience in their entire lives, he's not a drinker. Stiles made that clear the first time they ever spent time alone, the pack relegating them to research while the other shifters went out hunting and Lydia went home, fed up with everyone. After more than one sniff of Stiles' home -- not to mention his father -- Peter understood entirely where Stiles' clear distaste came from and has made sure to only ever have one glass of wine or scotch at a time. He can't get drunk, something that most likely grants a level of reassurance to Stiles, though Peter does enjoy the taste of some alcoholic drinks and he's never been in the habit of denying himself one glass here or there of life's little pleasures. </p>
<p>They both shower -- separately -- to clear off the smell of sitting in the car all day, not to mention the last traces of the ribs they ate for dinner, and dress in clothes laundered at The Joule last night, before heading up to the roof. </p>
<p>There aren't many people and someone does check Stiles' driver's license; it's covered by the faint tang of Spark magic, just enough for Peter to track if he focuses. Whatever Stiles did must work, though, because they're both allowed in. Peter goes to the bar, gets a glass of sangria for himself and a Diet Coke for Stiles, finds Stiles leaning against the railing, looking out over the city and toward the mountains. </p>
<p>"It's pretty here," Stiles says, taking the glass with a kiss to Peter's cheek. "I'm glad we don't have mountains like this back home, though. I'm just imagining how much running through the Preserve would hurt with this kind of elevation." </p>
<p>Peter hums in agreement, sips at his sangria. He's content, for now, to stand here next to his mate, their scents spiralling together, outwards, in quiet happiness. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>They watch the sun set, left alone by everyone else, and when it's dark and the air cools past comfort, they go back inside and down to their suite. As soon as they get in the door, Stiles kicks off his shoes with something like relief and collapses into a chair set around the table. Peter follows, grabs the room service menu and the room phone on his way, and settles down next to Stiles. His mate's eyes have gone white again, the deep fullness of his scent running free, the pulsing rhythm of light coming out from under his skin a warm, comforting glow; Peter feels like rending the world apart in his happiness. </p>
<p>They order half a dozen different things -- scallops and artichokes and octopus, roasted marrow and bacon-wrapped dates and oysters -- and a pitcher of citrus-flavoured sparkling water; as soon as Peter hangs up the phone and pushes the menu to the other side of the table, Stiles leans back in his chair and flings his feet in Peter's lap. </p>
<p>Peter rests one hand on the bony jut of Stiles' ankles, tips his head back and closes his eyes. "You hate wearing shoes," he says. "I suppose I noticed before but it's become obvious on this trip." </p>
<p>"You do, too," Stiles says. "You're just better at hiding it than I am. New rule: no shoes unless absolutely necessary, from here on out." Peter nods, makes a noise of agreement, lets the conversation die down in favour of rubbing Stiles' feet. Stiles, seemingly unwilling to revel in the quiet, says, "We're gonna need a pack house, Peter. No shoes in the pack house." </p>
<p>Peter's hands pause in their movement. "A pack house," he says. He can feel Stiles look at him but doesn't open his own eyes. "You mentioned a house when we were talking about glitter, with your witch," Peter says. "I wasn't sure exactly what you meant." </p>
<p>Stiles digs his heel into Peter's thigh, though whether that's a retort or a request for Peter to get back to the foot rub, Peter isn't sure. "A house for us," Stiles says. "A home. For us and for Derek and Lydia, and Isaac and Jackson, if they ever come back, and whoever else you want. With a big kitchen and a bigger table, and bookshelves and a quiet room and a front porch and a big garden." </p>
<p>"I'm not rebuilding the old house," Peter says. "I can't." </p>
<p>"I never assumed we would," Stiles tells him. "We can find one we like or design one ourselves and put it wherever we want. It doesn't even have to be in Beacon Hills, just as long as it's on the territory. Whatever you want." </p>
<p>"Whatever I want as long as it has a porch," Peter says. This time, he knows exactly why Stiles' heel digs into his belly. "A porch sounds nice," he admits. "So does a library. Talia -- Talia wasn't a big reader." </p>
<p>It's not the first time he's mentioned his sister but it is a little easier than it has been. </p>
<p>"Did she like movies?" Stiles asks. "Cora's a big fan of movies. Most people would assume Derek is, too, but he --" </p>
<p>"-- likes poetry to an inhuman degree," Peter says, finishing Stiles' sentence. "He enjoys magic realism when he reads fiction. Borges, Paz, Márquez. I've caught him reading the same Bolaño novel a dozen times in the past year." </p>
<p>Stiles chuckles, says, "A library for Derek as well, then. Just as long as neither of you judge me for filling a couple shelves with my comics." </p>
<p>"And Lydia won't?" Peter asks, amazed at how easy this is, the banter, the assumption of the future, that Derek and Lydia will still be with them, will still <i>want</i> to be with them. </p>
<p>"Lydia's used to me," Stiles says. "And she'll never admit to loving YA fiction but she's got every single series published since Harry Potter, swear to god." </p>
<p>He finally opens his eyes, looks at Stiles. Peter asks, can't help it, "This is you feeling hazy and disconnected? Because, Stiles, the way you sound, it's nothing like a Spark. You're planning for a pack house, you're talking about Derek's betas -- I thought Sparks didn't care about other people."</p>
<p>"Met many of us to compare?" Stiles asks, snarking lightly. He sighs, though, and spreads his toes when Peter starts digging into the spaces between them. "I don't -- it's hard to explain. It's not that I don't care about them, I do, but it's more of a possessive thing than anything humans would recognise as friendship. They're mine, I'm going to protect them, because keeping them alive and safe suits me. Whether they like that or not, I don't care. But even beyond that, they're your pack -- presumed pack right now, but still, your pack, and you caring about them means I'll care about them. It's part of the claiming, that what's important to you becomes important to me." </p>
<p>"And if you change your mind," Peter says, "about it suiting you to keep them alive and safe." </p>
<p>Stiles shrugs. "Then I won't bother, unless you still want them." </p>
<p>It -- it hurts, a little, to hear Stiles talk like that, to know that Stiles thinks of his friends mostly as toys, something to be coveted and cared for as long as his interest holds. He wonders if this is the way Stiles feels about his father. </p>
<p>"There's a reason so many of us are considered sociopaths," Stiles points out, "at least according to today's standards. You knew this, Peter. You've read the old legends. I may be different in some things but I'm incredibly normal when it comes to Sparks. We find it difficult to make emotional connections, some of us even find it pointless. But I tend to think that that makes the relationships we <i>do</i> choose to cultivate more special; we wouldn't do it if we didn't want to. And I want to with your pack." </p>
<p>"Tell me more about Sparks?" Peter asks. "Because the way you sounded just then, it seemed a little like prophecy. You've been -- not friends, but aware of Lydia for years, and even though you never had a reason to trust Derek, you brought him into your circle. Did you know what was going to happen? Where we were going to end up?" </p>
<p>Stiles lets out a breath, pins shining white eyes onto Peter with force that Peter's helpless to resist. "Lydia's important because she's a Morrigan," Stiles says. He waits for Peter to take that in, then closes his eyes, the spray of his eyelashes not even enough to capture Peter's full attention after that bombshell. "And while I didn't know that when we were kids, I knew there was <i>something</i> about her that sang to me. It seemed easiest to pretend I was in love with her; no one would give me a second look for watching her, knowing everything about her, wanting to be around her." </p>
<p>Peter's still stuck on Stiles' words. Shit. Lydia's not a banshee, she's a fucking <i>Morrigan</i>. It makes sense. It makes a disturbing amount of sense, and it also confirms Peter's decision to invite Lydia into the pack. She's not going to refuse him, not when he has Stiles. She'll follow Stiles anywhere.</p>
<p>"You said before that you did a lot of magic when you were young," Peter says, trying his best, for now, to push away what Stiles has just so casually admitted. It's difficult. It's <i>very</i> difficult. "But you didn't ignite until last year, so -- I'm a little confused on how that works." </p>
<p>"A lot of the magic I did was unconscious," Stiles says. "Most of it, actually, but I've always been a Spark. I was born a Spark. I've always had magic. I just didn't know how to control it. Ignition is a means of knowledge; igniting is more like unlocking than combusting. Some Sparks never find the key, some Sparks are born unlocked, but the one thing we all have in abundance is magic. When I was little --," and he trails off, swallows with enough force that Peter's momentarily distracted by the movement of his adam's apple. "When I was little, I knew there was something I was meant to do or be, I just couldn't tell what. Knowing -- knowing is something that all magic users possess to some degree. Some call it prophecy, and when it's a strong gift, sure, that's as good a word for it as anything. But knowing is just -- knowing. I knew I had to create my own code, so I did. I knew Lydia was important and that I had to stay close, so I did. I knew that being friends with Scott would lead me somewhere important, so I made friends with him even though he's always been a little do-gooder. I wish --. I wish I'd known about the fire. About Kate." </p>
<p>Peter's heart skips a beat. "And what would you have done?" Peter asks, soft even though his heart feels like it's breaking all over again. "You didn't have control of your magic. You were just a child." </p>
<p>Stiles' lip curls. "Sometimes," he says, "the thing about uncontrolled magic is that it's much more powerful. I'd wipe her out if she was in front of me right now. Back then, if I'd known? I would've obliterated her. Her and her entire fucking family." </p>
<p>Chills run up Peter's spine, down his arms, across his thighs. He looks down at his hands, sees frost crystals on his fingernails, shudders as he watches them melt almost as instantly as they'd formed. Sometimes he forgets how much power Stiles has; it's easy when they're talking in an almost academic fashion about his magic, about what he is. Being faced with the reminder is a little different, a little harder. </p>
<p>"They say Sparks created the universe," Peter says, "and Death. That you're connected to the centre of the world, that your magic is old, that no one can kill a Spark unless they invite Death to them, that you only experience the most primal of emotions because lesser feelings don't interest you." </p>
<p>"Mostly true," Stiles says. "But we can die. We often choose to, at younger ages and in greater numbers than most would expect from magic users. Igniting -- hurts, in a way that's difficult to describe; it changes us -- the unlocking I mentioned -- and the change destroys us, rebuilds us, so that we can handle the magic at our disposal. Without a steadying influence like a pack or a claimed mate, most of us choose not to exist after we ignite, the pain is that bad. I was lucky enough to have pack bonds and you."</p>
<p>Peter takes that in, asks, "And Death? I assume there's some kind of connection there, with you being drawn to watch Lydia." </p>
<p>"Sparks -- I guess you could say that Sparks named Death," Stiles says. "Death existed in a state other than what we think of it now, but Sparks named it and gave it meaning. The first Spark claimed Death, in a sense, the way I claimed you. It's why we think of Death's children as ours. Every Spark's magic is kin to every other Spark's that's ever lived and will ever live, so in that respect, since I've ignited I've thought of Lydia as something of a niece."</p>
<p>"That's why you let her serve as your tether during the sacrifice?" Peter asks. </p>
<p>Stiles hums, says, "Even with me controlling the magic, everyone else would've died. But, then again, there was no one else in that room that I would have bothered controlling the magic for." He shifts, takes his feet off of Peter's lap and curls up in his chair. "I'm used to hiding. I see the advantages of it. I'm just starting to get tired of it. You want me to be me, Peter, and I'm trying, but the more I am, the less I'll want to be the Stiles everyone else knows." </p>
<p>"Good," Peter says, firm, snarling the word a little. "You shouldn't have to pretend." He growls, once, then gives himself a mental shake, tells himself to calm down. "New rule for the pack house: no pretending. No hiding." </p>
<p>"I like it," Stiles says. He's smiling. His eyes are still closed but the shine of white from beneath his eyelids is bright enough for Peter to see, to take in, to fall in love with all over again. "No pretending, no shoes. This list of rules is getting off to a great start. I think we should add something like 'no clothes.' Clothes are such a waste." </p>
<p>Peter considers that, says, "Can't agree. I don't want anyone else seeing you naked. That's just for me." </p>
<p>Stiles' grin grows a little bit, showing off his teeth, the way they glint. "Want it to be just for you right now?" </p>
<p>"Yes," Peter says.He snarls, then, says, reluctantly, "But the food should be here soon. Raincheck?" </p>
<p>"Raincheck," Stiles agrees. "How much longer do you think they'll be? I know we ate, like, our pack's entire body weight in ribs but I'm <i>starving</i>." </p>
<p>Peter laughs.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content warning: there are discussions of child abuse, child neglect, and attempted homicide in this chapter, mostly pertaining to Stiles' relationship with his parents. Some of this could be considered graphic. Please do not read if this might upset you. You can do a ctrl-F to search for 'Baskin-Robbins' to skip the first half of the chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They check out the next morning after an early breakfast at the hotel restaurant, Stiles wearing bracelets of fingerprint-bruises and an easy smile. The proof of Peter's possession eases the wolf as the valet gives Stiles a blatant once-over; Peter startling the boy with his growl and Stiles ignoring him with the casual dismissal of someone who didn't even notice getting checked out also helps, leaves Peter hiding a private smile as they get back on the highway and continue their drive west. </p><p>Stiles dozes for a little, Spark-glow shimmering above his skin in rhythm with his breathing. Peter listens to NPR with one ear, listens with most of his attention to the steady beat of Stiles' heart. His mate has every layer of his scent out, saturating Peter's car even more; every square inch is forever going to hold Stiles' scent and while the wolf appreciates that, Peter mourns the fact that he's never going to be able to get in his car without desire pulsing through his veins. </p><p>Once Stiles unfolds from the half-doze he's been in and looks awake enough for what has the potential to be a brutal conversation, Peter switches the radio to something light and jazzy, turns it down so that it's barely audible. He takes a deep breath and asks Stiles, "How many times did your mother try to kill you?" </p><p>Stiles' gaze immediately goes to Peter's face, but he's not glaring or giving Peter any kind of suspicious look. Instead, there's just a hint of resignation in the droop of his shoulders, that and something steel-like in the set of his jaw.</p><p>"You had another dream," Stiles says. Peter's not sure if that's a question or a statement. "What did," he starts to ask, then shakes his head once and says, instead, "Seven. Possibly eight, but I think the first time was honestly an accident. It just gave her -- ideas."</p><p>Eight times. His mother <i>loved</i> him and then tried to kill him <i>eight times</i>. </p><p>Peter's eyes are fixed on the road but he knows they've gone red, can feel his wolf snarling and snapping, irate at being prevented from hunting down such a threat to its mate. Even the knowledge that Stiles has already killed her, has already avenged himself against her, isn't enough to help him gain control.</p><p>Then there's a hand on his thigh, a searing blaze of split-second light, and the wolf settles, displeased but calmer. </p><p>"Which one did you see?" Stiles asks, soft, like he's not sure he really wants to hear the answer.</p><p>"The bathtub," Peter replies. </p><p>Stiles makes a noise low in his throat, fingers clenching tight around Peter's leg, nails digging deep for a moment before he lets go, drops both of his hands in his lap, fingers twisting together. "Ah. Yeah, that was -- dad never really left me alone with her after that, not until the hospital had room for her and she was drugged up all the time."</p><p>"You looked young," Peter says. "Was that the last time she --."</p><p>He trails off and can see Stiles, in his peripheral vision, take a deep breath. "No," he says. "No, there were -- she tried again a couple times after that." Stiles looks down at his hands, picks at the skin around one of his nails. "The drowning was the worst, but she didn't like to get too -- she tried to stay away from me, mostly, and do things that weren't so, uh. Hands-on, I guess. She pushed me down the stairs a couple times. Once, at the hospital, she tried to shove me off the roof. Dad caught her before she got very far, but the next time she was let out of her restraints, she came at me with a syringe she stole off the nurses." Stiles lips quirk, just a little. "She was always good at improvising. To this day, I have no idea what was in that syringe. It could've been vitamins, or some kind of steroid shot, epinephrine, a flu shot, morphine. Might not have done anything even if I wasn't on guard and she'd managed to stick me with it." </p><p>Peter doesn't know if he should push or not. On the one hand, Stiles reeks of grief and discomfort, and he's bleeding just a little from where he's pulling skin off from around his fingernail. On the other hand, it might be better to get this conversation done all at once instead of dragging it out piece by piece each time something else comes up or Peter has another dream. </p><p>"It's all right," Stiles says, softly, though his posture says that it's anything but. "This is what the dreams are for. And after the nogitsune, my most -- fuck, impactful, maybe? relationship is -- <i>was</i> with my mother. Ask what questions you want. Though next time we stop, I want ice cream." </p><p>"Find a good place," Peter says, picking up Stiles' phone from where it's been resting in the cupholder between them, handing it over to Stiles and caressing Stiles' the curve of Stiles' knuckles, just for a brief moment. "Something better than soft-serve from McDonalds." </p><p>That'll give Stiles something to do with his hands that isn't self-mutilation, possibly also direct a little of his attention off the subject matter and onto something more pleasant. It'll also give Peter an idea of how long Stiles is willing to indulge his questions; he'll be curious, somewhat, to see if Stiles picks out a place twenty minutes away or three hours away, closer to when they'd agreed to stop for lunch. </p><p>As Stiles starts playing with Google Maps, Peter takes a deep breath. "I'd like to know how your mother tried and how old you were each time. And," he adds, "where your father was." </p><p>Stiles lets out a breath from between his teeth. The glow around him, let loose the moment they got in the car and drove out of Albuquerque, flickers brighter for a brief second. "I was six the first time she pushed me down the stairs. Dad was at work; he was on the night shift, then, and I'd gone to bed. I woke up -- I used to have night terrors when I was a kid -- and mom was --." He stops, bites his bottom lip, turns the phone over and over in his hands. His voice, when he speaks, sounds very distant. "She always used to hold me through them to keep me from sleepwalking or hurting myself. After they finished and I fell back asleep, I was never asleep for very long. I'd wake up scared out of my mind even though I couldn't remember why." </p><p>Cora had nightmares when she was a toddler. She'd wake up howling, wake everyone else in the house up, shrieking and crying with her tiny little fangs out and her claws ripping through anything in her way as she tried to run. They were only nightmares, though, and Cora always remembered them afterwards, would haltingly tell them all what the dreams were about. </p><p>Peter spent six years in a living nightmare, with only the idea of vengeance to see him through. </p><p>"Mom always said that waking up from something scary was better if you were with someone you loved," Stiles goes on. "Every time I woke up, she'd be there, brushing my hair back from my forehead. We'd -- she turned it into something nice, for us. Like she was trying to balance out the bad with the good. She'd take me downstairs and we'd have tea -- lavender and rosehip, she blended it herself; the only time we ever had it was after my nightmares. Cookies, too, or cake, whatever sweets we had in the house. That night, I -- for a while, I thought I tripped. I was always a klutz, so it -- y'know, I'd fallen down the stairs before. I thought -- I felt her touch my back. I thought she'd been trying to catch me." </p><p>God. <i>God</i>.</p><p>Peter doesn't even know where to start with that. He doesn't know what to do with that <i>at all</i>. The amount of trauma that his mate -- his <i>mate</i> -- has gone through has his wolf whining, hiding its snout in its paws, curled up in on itself. He wishes he could do the same. </p><p>Instead, Peter reaches over, grabs Stiles' hand. He needs the reassurance that Stiles is here, that he's okay, that he's <i>safe</i>, alive, unharmed. He could have lost Stiles, could have never known Stiles, could have read about the death of a deputy's child in the paper without any sense of involvement or care, and that's -- that's unconscionable. </p><p>"I'm so <i>sorry</i>," he breathes. He has no words and the ones he's just offered aren't enough, could never be enough, but he doesn't know what else to say. </p><p>"Remember that one time you tried to pour a cup of lavender tea down my throat," Stiles says, pretending at lightness, "and I refused, and I wouldn't tell you why? That's why. That's why I don't like <i>anything</i> lavender." </p><p>Peter brings Stiles' hand to his mouth, kisses Stiles' knuckles. "Another rule for the pack house," he says. "Nothing lavender. Can -- can I ask questions?" </p><p>Stiles shifts in his seat, tucks one leg under him and props his head against the headrest. He keeps hold of Peter's hand, rests their linked hands on his knee. Stiles gives Peter a soft, hesitant look. "I guarantee you're not going to like any of the answers, but -- yeah. Go ahead." </p><p>"The night terrors," Peter says. "You or your magic?" </p><p>"Both, I think," Stiles replies after a moment, as if he wasn't expecting the question. Good. Peter would rather have Stiles startled than upset. "Night terrors -- sleep disturbances in general -- can be a symptom of ADHD, which I was diagnosed with around that time. Yeah, the ADHD was mostly a result of my magic, but who knows how the brain works; it's possible that my magic mimicked ADHD well enough that it could've actually changed my brain. That's around the time I started taking ADHD meds, too, and it took a while for my parents and the doctors to settle on a prescription and a dosage that worked to balance out the symptoms. So it could've been a medication response, or my brain reacting to ADHD-specific neurological patterns, or, hey, it's not out of the realm of possibility that the night terrors were legitimate. I mean, normal kids have them all the time. But, like I said before, I was doing a lot of unconscious magic when I was that age, and the likelihood that the dreams could've been a result of trapped magic is -- high. Maybe if I knew what I was dreaming about I'd have a better idea, but --."</p><p>Peter takes his eyes off the road for a second -- dangerous at the speed they're travelling for a human but not as dangerous for someone with a shifter's reflexes -- to meet Stiles' eyes. "I can change the subject, Stiles," he says. </p><p>Stiles chews on his bottom lip for a moment, finally gives Peter a tremulous smile. "No," he says, even as his scent floods with the bitterness of gentians and rotten walnuts. Every signal Stiles' body gives off, from his posture to his scent to the flavour under his words, speaks of his reluctance, but he still says, "Let's get this over with." </p><p>"Then tell me about the other times," Peter says, resisting the urge to pull over and wrap Stiles up in his arms, to bare his teeth to the sky and howl in rage against what his mate's lived through and fierce, all-consuming gratitude that Stiles survived it so that he could become Peter's -- by <i>choice</i>. His hands tighten their grip, one around the steering wheel, one around Stiles' hand, and he looks back to the road but sees Stiles nod, look down again, eyes focused on the centre console. </p><p>"The second time, she locked me outside. I don't know if you remember -- we had that cold snap eleven-ish years ago? It snowed; we got, like, almost a foot? I thought it was an accident that time, too," Stiles says with a laugh that sounds strangled. "Dad left for an overnight shift and half an hour later she told me to go outside to get some rosemary; we were making pierogies for dinner, one of babcia's old recipes. As soon as I stepped out of the house, she locked the door. I went around the front of the house and knocked, rang the doorbell, went to the back again and knocked there. Looking back now, y'know, I don't know why I didn't just go to the neighbour's but I just --. I just stayed out there. By the time dad got home, I was hypothermic. I ended up in the hospital for a couple days. She tried again in the hospital, mixed up my medicine with someone else's. She said it was an accident. I don't know if dad believed her or not, but that's when he made her go see the doctor."  </p><p>Peter tilts his head, glances at Stiles and tries to be careful. "You said before that you gave her dementia. Is this when they discovered it?" </p><p>Stiles nods for a moment before answering. "I'm still not sure when I -- it was probably something I did that night while I was outside. Even the doctors said I shouldn't have survived without permanent damage so it's not a stretch to think that my magic kept me alive and started trying to --." </p><p>He trails off but Peter picks up the thread of his thought. If Stiles' Spark was trying to keep him alive, then it would of <i>course</i> go after the threat at the same time it did damage control on his body. It probably saw the two actions as one and the same, an equal level of importance. After all, what's the point of healing the body if the threat remains to hurt it, over and over again? </p><p>"So that's one, two, and three," Peter says, "and you've already told me about six, seven, and eight. What were four and five?" </p><p>"Rat poison and another push down the stairs," Stiles says, his tone flat and emotionless, though his scent is anything but. "This time there was broken glass at the bottom of the stairs. My dad's favourite tumblers, fancy things, a going-away present from his parents when he graduated from basic and got his first assignment. I don't think," he says idly, "that dad ever forgave me for that. I know he never believed that it was mom who smashed them."</p><p>Peter's never much cared for the sheriff. Ever since Peter came back from the dead, he's been idly plotting out ways to murder him and put someone more useful in such a pivotal position, but now he thinks he could quite happily rip the sheriff limb from limb in the middle of town and pay whatever price society thinks he'd owe. </p><p>"Hey," Stiles says, squeezing Peter's hand, trying to comfort Peter even as their bond twines tight and unhappy with Stiles' sorrow. "Peter, hey, come on. It's okay." </p><p>"It's not," Peter says. "It's not okay, Stiles. It's so far from okay that hearing you say that makes me want to scream."</p><p>Stiles sighs. He looks down at their joined hands, rubs his thumb in absentminded circles over Peter's skin. "Mom was -- it's a cliche, I know, but she was magical, all right? She could make <i>anything</i> grow, had a green thumb the likes of which I haven't seen replicated by anyone I've ever met, magic or otherwise. She was bright, and happy, and could make anyone laugh. She and dad loved each other, and --"</p><p>"Please," Peter says, cutting Stiles off and pretending not to notice Stiles flinch as he does. "Do not try and excuse them. Either one of them. Your mother kept trying to kill you rather than remove herself from the temptation and your father let it happen, over and over again. He abandoned you to a madwoman and it seems to me that he has <i>never</i> attempted to atone for that, letting it set a pattern instead. He drinks to mourn her, leaving you to clean up after him and cover for him. He throws himself into his work, leaving you to take charge of the house and yourself. He verbally tells you, over and over again, that he doesn't trust you and has never trusted you. He ignores your pain and can't be bothered to take an interest in your life. He left you to the whims of a woman trying to kill you and he has <i>never</i> returned to you. Make apologies for your mother and her instincts and magic if you want, but don't you <i>dare</i> apologise for what your father has done when it's arguably much, much worse. At least your mother cared enough about you to try and kill you. Your father hasn't cared about you in <i>years</i>." </p><p>There's a long stretch of silence, then. Peter tries to calm down but he won't take any of his words back. He thought he detested the man for not doing a better job of protecting Stiles, for the way he's distanced himself from Stiles since the nogitsune, for the way he seems to trust Peter's former beta rather than his own son, but all of that pales in comparison to what he's just learned. No. Everything that Peter hates about the man has been a pattern set and repeated for years, and it's only a small mercy that the man chose emotional neglect and verbal humiliation rather than --</p><p>"Did he ever beat you?" Peter asks. He has to know if there was physical abuse as well, if that man ever laid a hand on Stiles. If he did, if -- Peter's not going to kill him. He's going to repay every hurt that Stiles felt onto the sheriff's body first and then he might, if he's feeling generous, <i>might</i> let the man die. </p><p>Stiles takes a long time to answer, Peter's ire growing, gathering steam and anger and <i>hate</i>. He finally says, "No. Spanked me a couple times when I was a kid, before the ADHD diagnosis. But he never hit me. He just -- he just never <i>liked</i> me." </p><p>Peter forces back his fangs, fights the shift until his eyes go back to normal and his claws recede. Once he has control, he tells Stiles, "From the very first moment I met you, you have <i>always</i> been my favourite. So fuck him. You're mine now." </p><p>"I think I'd like to stop for ice cream," Stiles says. Peter immediately turns off cruise control and slows down in anticipation of the next exit. </p><p>Whatever Stiles wants, Stiles gets. </p><p>--</p><p>Sitting at the back of a Baskin-Robbins, two scoops of cotton candy ice cream in a cup in front of him, Stiles looks at Peter, half-smile on his face, and says, "It's been worth it, y'know. To end up here. Not in a beat-up old Baskin-Robbins in the middle of nowhere, but -- with you. Like this." </p><p>Peter can't disagree when he thought much the same the morning after their bonding. "I just wish it hadn't been necessary."</p><p>"For either of us," Stiles says. "I think we should find a way to make that a house rule, too. I don't know how to word it, but I think that should be a house rule." </p><p>"We'll think about it," Peter says. "Find a way. We have time." </p><p>Stiles' scent blooms with happiness. "Yeah. Plenty of time." </p><p>--</p><p>They pick up some snacks before they get back on the highway, stop outside Vegas for lunch in the early afternoon. Peter's been making good time, doing around 110 miles per hour -- not as fast as his drive to New Orleans, but fast enough that he's thankful he has a good car and he's mentally promising to get her a tune-up once they're back in Beacon Hills. By the time they're done with lunch, and if he's able to maintain his current pace, they should be home around sunset. </p><p>Stiles has asked him a lot of questions about what his life was like growing up, claimed that since there aren't any dreams coming his way of Peter's life, Peter's stuck telling him anything and everything he wants to know. He tells Stiles what it was like to grow up as the much younger brother of the alpha-heir, what it was like to watch his sister inherit and have a family, what it was like to fall into the position he did, his triumphs and his failings, the first time he met Deucalion and Gerard Argent, his first meeting with the Triple Alliance, what it was like to burn without ceasing for six years, the smell of death and pain stuck in his nose, his wolf comatose with despair and anguish in the aftermath of broken pack bonds and the abandonment of the only other survivors. </p><p>Stiles listens, is gentle, more gentle than Peter was, apart from when Peter says, "Sometimes I regret Laura." Then, Stiles sits up straight, pins Spark-white eyes on him, and snarls, "<i>Don't</i>." </p><p>Peter resists the urge to bare his throat, to cower in the face of the Spark's anger, and whines, a high, lupine sound of scared submission crawling up from his throat with all the softness of nails. </p><p>"You can be mad at my father for abandoning me," Stiles says. "I'll be mad at her for doing the same, and in a much more dangerous situation. I was there, Peter. I <i>saw</i> you, saw the hospital. Any hunter could've waltzed right in and killed you. She left you to that, broke all laws of pack when she left you. You had <i>every right</i> to rip her throat out and not one shifter would disagree with me. So no. Don't regret it. Feel sad it came to that, if you want, but don't you dare regret it." </p><p>And, well. In the face of such an order from a Spark, who is Peter to argue? </p><p>"The Dallas packs taught you well," Peter eventually says. </p><p>"Not just them," Stiles admits. "My mentor, the coven, even Bee-Bee and some of the others. The druids practice balance but Sparks -- we're judgment. I didn't want to -- no one would argue with me, but I never wanted there to be a <i>reason</i> to argue."</p><p>There are times when Stiles says things that fly in the face of everything Peter's come to expect from other people. </p><p>"Tell me about the others," Peter half-asks. "The coven, you mentioned a kiss before, a sidhe, too. When did you meet them? What are they like?" </p><p>"The summer after you came back from the dead," Stiles says, making a face that has Peter laughing, a little, "Derek was busy looking for Erica and Boyd, Allison and Jackson were gone, Lydia was auditing classes at Stanford, the overachiever, Scott and Isaac were becoming friends, you were -- doing god knows what, and dad was working a ton of extra shifts while they were trying to hire new deputies. I -- hm. Actually, no, it started before then, after I ignited. When I realised what I was, I knew I'd need a teacher, so I reached out to Satomi to see if she knew anyone local." </p><p>Peter gives Stiles a bewildered look, not so much at him apparently being on a first-name basis with Satomi Ito, because Stiles has never been one to stand on propriety when he can stomp right on over good manners, but at the fact that he already knows Alpha Ito and knows her well enough to ask for her opinion on a magical mentor. That speaks to a certain amount of trust, but also a large amount of familiarity. "When did you meet Alpha Ito?" </p><p>Stiles winces. "Uh," he says. Peter gives him a look, says his name in a low tone, and Stiles rolls his eyes. "After you bit Scott. I was trying to figure out how to train him and I ran across some things that made me think -- so I --" </p><p>"Please," Peter says, interrupting even through the disgruntled poke from his wolf at the rudeness, "do not tell me you thought you found an alpha werewolf and just -- went to her territory and confronted her." </p><p>The expression that crosses Stiles' face could perhaps, charitably, be called a grimace. He smells, though, like nothing so much as complete amusement. "It wasn't so much a confrontation as it was a desperate plea for help." </p><p>Sometimes, the fact that Stiles is still alive just -- Peter's stunned. </p><p>"Satomi helped me come up with things to help teach Scott control, find an anchor, get him through the first couple full moons," Stiles says. "We kept in touch after that. I go over to her place about once a month for tea and gossip and a game of Go, and she's actually pretty hilarious over texts. Great grasp of memes." Peter blinks, tries to imagine that and can't. He absolutely cannot. "So when I ignited, going to her first made sense." </p><p>"I'm surprised you don't have a bond to her," Peter says. "Or that she didn't reach out to any of the wolves herself." </p><p>Stiles shrugs one shoulder, says, "I asked her not to. As long as we kept the chaos to Beacon Hills proper, I told her we could handle it. As for bonding -- we talked about it. I have a couple to others in her pack, but like my bond to Tish, they're magically-anchored singular bonds, not real pack bonds." </p><p>"So Alpha Ito sent you to your mentor," Peter says. "Are you going to -- <i>can</i> you tell me her name now?" </p><p>"Tish was born a wolf," Stiles says. "Her sister wasn't. She was raised in the Tancoa pack, brought up as a future emissary. She -- well, rebelled is maybe putting it lightly but she left Dallas. Ran to New Orleans when she was sixteen, fell in with Bee-Bee and her crowd, developed a taste for spells outside of strict pack magic, travelled around a lot, made a bunch of connections, and eventually ended up in the Valley. She was declared <i>persona non grata</i> by the Triple Alliance; Tish couldn't pick communication back up with her until she became an alpha in her own right, and even then it took months for the Alliance council to agree to restore her sister's status as pack-adjacent. Actually, Tish permanently sacrificed her vote as a bargaining chip to get them to agree. Um." Stiles stops, worries at his bottom lip, and looks at Peter through his eyelashes as he says, "Tish's last name is Medina." </p><p>It's a good thing that the car's on cruise control and they're on a relatively straight stretch of road because Peter loses his breath when he puts the clues Stiles has given him together. "Are you --. Stiles. Are you seriously telling me that <i>Soledad Medina</i> is your mentor. Alpha Ito sent you to <i>Mad Mage Medina</i>?" </p><p>Stiles snorts. "Such a stupid nickname," he says. "She's only as mad as she has to be, and, anyway, I prefer Satanic Soledad. It's got a nicer ring to it. But, y'know, props to Solé for getting so many alliterative nicknames, right?" </p><p>One of these days, Stiles is going to do or say something that will give Peter a heart attack. </p><p>Even before the fire, Soledad Medina had a reputation that made sure Peter -- and, by extension, his pack -- skirted her and her claimed territory <i>very</i> carefully. He met her once and had nightmares for almost a month afterwards, plagued by memories of the dark shapes writhing in the air around her hands and the shadows twisting behind her shoulders, by the feeling of something <i>wrong</i> pressing outwards from her, thick and viscous and setting off all of his senses because he couldn't smell them, couldn't see them apart from nebulous clouds that only gained substance when he moved too quickly, gnarled claws and fingers reaching out of nowhere in the corners of his eyes. He'd heard rumours before meeting her of the demonic tinge to her magic, warnings to be careful around her for fear of being torn apart and added to her collection of talismans, but those rumours faded into fear-addled truth the one and only time he came face-to-face with her.</p><p>She has always kept to herself -- thankfully, because no one could stand against the legion she'd reportedly bound into her service, not to mention the hoards that owed her favours. She'd claimed her town and a certain section of the Valley as her territory and warned everyone else to stay away, unless they were invited, under pain of eternal torment. No one's dared to test that, no one that Peter knows of, anyway -- </p><p>No one until Stiles. Because of <i>course</i> that wouldn't scare Stiles away. He probably <i>laughed</i> at the idea of testing her and now he has her as his <i>mentor</i>. He's given her a <i>nickname</i>. </p><p>If Peter didn't love him so much, he'd fucking kill Stiles for being so cavalier with his own life. </p><p>"I'm a Spark," Stiles says, evidently reading Peter's mind -- or noticing the way Peter's growling, knuckles going white around the steering wheel, barely breathing through dropped fangs. "She couldn't have done anything to me." </p><p>"If you <i>hadn't</i> been a Spark," Peter growls, "then she would've slaughtered you and ripped your magic from your bones herself." He takes a deep breath, then another, ends up practicing calming, meditative breathing for long minutes, trying to get the wolf under control. "I cannot believe that Alpha Ito sent you to Mage Medina uninvited." </p><p>Stiles makes a face. "Um. So. Satomi didn't so much point me in Solé's direction as warn me off," he admits. </p><p>"But you being you," Peter mutters, "of <i>course</i> you didn't listen to common sense and instead went and sought out the most feared <i>demon-summoner</i> in the country the very first chance you had." </p><p>The air coming off of Stiles <i>reeks</i> of laughter. "She's not that bad." </p><p>Peter rolls his eyes. "Not to <i>you</i>." He pauses, then, struck by a thought, and can't help the slow smile curling at the edges of his lips as he asks, "How did Alpha Ito react when she found out?" </p><p>Stiles mutters something too quiet and quick for even Peter's heightened hearing to pick up. He asks Stiles to repeat himself and Stiles says, petulantly, "She yelled at me for an hour then grounded me to Beacon Hills for a fortnight. She said it would've been longer but that she wasn't my alpha to discipline me and Solé said I couldn't waste time on punishment when I needed training." </p><p>"Be glad I wasn't your alpha then," Peter says. "I would've grounded you for <i>life</i>. I'm <i>still</i> tempted to ground you for life. Lock you up and throw away the key for your own protection," he mutters.  </p><p>Fuck. Soledad Medina. Of course, that would explain how Stiles ended up meeting so many varied magical people and beings. No one would dare turn away the Mad Medina if she called, asking to bring her protégé for a visit. At least she has enough power at her command to protect Stiles -- not that he needs it, but having properly lethal backup is always wise when entering unknown situations. </p><p>A few minutes later, what feels like a whole handful of stopped heartbeats later, Peter shakes his head and lets out a deep breath. "You never do anything by halves," he says. "Do you." </p><p>Stiles laughs, points out, "You'd be bored with me if I did. But -- uh. You do remember that Solé and I are bound by contract, right? That means a magical bond. So congratulations, alpha-mine, because <i>that</i> means your pack is allied with her. You ready for the kind of notoriety that's gonna bring you?" </p><p>"I'm going to have to meet her again, aren't I." </p><p>Somehow, the thought that Stiles is going to be there as well makes the idea a <i>touch</i> more palatable. </p><p>--</p><p>Stiles doesn't say much for a while, most likely to let Peter get over the shock and file everything he's learned away. Peter appreciates it; once he's come to terms with the idea of having Soledad Medina in his life and considered the benefits of Stiles' friendship with Alpha Ito, the questions start piling up. </p><p>They stop for gas and coffee, get back on the road, and before Stiles has the chance to choose the direction of their conversation, Peter says, "The summer after Whittemore, before the Alpha Pack came, that's when you and Mage Medina travelled? Your father didn't ask questions when you, what, just disappeared for a couple months?"</p><p>"Told him I had summer camp," Stiles says, wrinkling his nose a little, though at what, Peter's not sure. "Solé and I were spending weekends together by that point, some evenings, too, if I could get over to hers when the wolves were all freaking out about the kanima. Well, when Derek's pack was freaking out about the kanima. Scott was still with Allison then so I didn't have to do anything to avoid him; he was pretty much always too busy sneaking around with her to worry about me. Solé actually dragged me down to New Orleans a few weeks before the end of school, right after the rave. Bee-Bee's the one who had the idea about faking a summer camp but Solé made up all the forms and paperwork, answered the phone when dad called to check it out, cashed the check he wrote and then gave me the money. Once school let out, I stayed with Solé for a couple weeks, then we went to Chicago, stayed with the vampires for a few days, met the elder shaman of the Inoka territory, then up to New Hampshire." </p><p>"The sidhe," Peter half-asks, as Stiles stops to sip his coffee. "I would have thought you'd align more with the Summer Court, but I'm assuming the one you met with was Winter Court, based on the location?" </p><p>Stiles puts his coffee down, then reaches into the backseat to retrieve one of the Sucré boxes. Peter's eyes get caught on the skin showing as Stiles' shirt slides up, tracing out the lines of scabs from his claws, still healing, and the bruises surrounding them. When Stiles sits back in his seat, box on his lap, he's giving Peter a wicked grin. Stiles opens the box, takes out a mint julep chocolate, makes a show of eating it and then licking the remnants of melted chocolate off his fingers. </p><p>Peter's fangs drop and it's more than a moment's effort to get them to recede back in his gums enough to ask, "Are you avoiding the question?" </p><p>Pouting, Stiles eats another piece of chocolate, then offers one to Peter. "Maybe," he says. "You've already had one mindfuck today." </p><p>"I didn't say anything about the vampires," Peter says. He takes the chocolate Stiles is offering, eats it and lets the sweet taste of sugar and mint calm him down. "What makes you think you need to sidestep the answer to <i>this</i> question? It was just one fae." He stops, takes a deep breath, asks, "Was it just <i>one</i> fae, Stiles?" </p><p>"Yes," Stiles replies, instantly. "Well, sort of. There was a courier we met on this side of the barrier, who escorted us into faerie, but once we crossed over, we only met with one of the sidhe, and yes, of the Winter Court." </p><p>Peter reaches for another piece of chocolate, grabs two instead and eats them in quick succession. He has a feeling he's going to need the restorative properties of chocolate when Stiles stops being so coy and answers the question. </p><p>"Tell me," he says.</p><p>"There's a gateway to the Winterlands up there in the White Mountains," Stiles says. "Solé and I crossed over and met with Queen Mab for dinner. By the time we came back, we'd lost three weeks." </p><p>Two pieces of chocolate were not enough. </p><p>--</p><p>There aren't many shocks after that, thank god. After New Hampshire, Stiles and the mage flew to St. Augustine to meet with Maritza, Béa's counterpart and <i>bruja</i> responsible for the old territory of <i>la Florida</i>, then over to Denver and the most powerful air elemental in the country, then to Portland, where Stiles entered into a treaty with the oldest coven in North America. Stiles mentions a few more places, a few more people -- blood mages and earth witches, rune warders and seers, necromancers and clairvoyants, enchanters and skinwalkers -- but skims over them as if they're not as important. </p><p>It all goes to cement what Peter assumed before, on their way to New Orleans: Stiles is incredibly well-connected in their world and everyone who counts most likely already knows that there's a Spark and that the Spark's settled in the west. Rumours have probably spread of Mage Medina's involvement, as well, and Stiles glossed over the mention of treaties and alliances for the most part, but when he told Peter they'd have backing when they claim Beacon Hills, Peter never imagined <i>this</i> kind of backing. </p><p>The Hales were always considered something close to the major shifter power in the west -- they weren't old like the Triple Alliance, or wealthy like the packs in Maine and Vermont, or even as well-connected locally to other shifters and magic-users the way the Gulf Coast packs were, but they were strong, and although they never advertised their connection to a nemeton, most knew about it. With that name, that legacy, any Hale alpha would be justified in demanding respect. Having a Spark deigning to mate with him, to serve as emissary and join his pack, gives Peter even more influence; the formal alliances and informal understandings that Stiles brings with him means that their pack could <i>rule the country</i> if they wanted. </p><p>But Stiles has already said he doesn't want to claim the country, just wants Beacon Hills, and Peter wonders at that, wonders at the limits of Stiles' desires, at Stiles' reluctance to demand his <i>due</i> as a Spark, at why Stiles doesn't want to give his Spark full reign. He knows that Stiles resents what he is, sometimes, and no doubt Stiles has cursed his fate more than once, but it seems like such a <i>waste</i>.</p><p>"Not a waste," Stiles says, sharply. The light around him, something that Peter's gotten used to over the course of the last couple days, disappears entirely. "My choice, Peter. One you'll respect." </p><p>"Of course," Peter says, tilts his head to show Stiles his throat. "One day I might even understand." </p><p>Stiles makes a noise in his throat, something dismissive and full of disbelief. Peter snarls at the brush-off even as his wolf growls for arguing with Stiles, for being so obviously blunt at displaying disagreement. </p><p>"Ruling is more trouble than it's worth," Stiles says. "And, honestly, in everything but name, I already <i>do</i>. But better to leave the structures of power in place for now, knowing I can influence them or change them or get rid of them whenever I want, at a pace I want. I don't want this country, Peter. I don't want the responsibility. Taking care of <i>our</i> territory day-to-day is enough for me. The others will ask me for help when they need it." </p><p>"Judgment," Peter says, carefully, "instead of leadership? You wouldn't have to judge if you command." </p><p>Stiles lets out a deep breath. "Free will is more important. Mistakes are important. Choice is important."</p><p>That says more about Stiles than Peter thinks Stiles would ever admit to. It explains so much. </p><p>--</p><p>Stiles keeps his mouth shut after that, posture curled up and shut off, scent echoing much the same with overtones of dust storms, closed away and silent in a way that scents so very rarely embody. He drifts off to sleep soon after and Peter uses the silence to think, to reexamine every assumption he's ever made, to start developing plans within plans, to list out the steps they need to take once they get back to Beacon Hills. </p><p>Stiles wakes up when they cross into California, finishes his coffee -- cold, thick, smelling of sludge -- by chugging it down in a handful of long swallows, and stretches, finishes off by cracking his neck and knuckles. His scent's evened out again, the subtle glow of his Spark is back, and he reaches over, pats Peter's thigh and then leaves his hand there, a casual weight that has Peter's wolf yipping and spinning in circles of joy.</p><p>"Your car's been great," Stiles says, fighting a yawn and failing, "but if we don't go on another road trip for, like, three years, it won't be too soon. How much longer 'til we get home?" </p><p>Home. Peter likes the sound of that. </p><p>"Three hours, give or take," he says. "Hungry? We could stop for dinner?" Peter adds, grinning, "Get out of the car for a bit." </p><p>"Oh, <i>fuck</i> yes," Stiles replies. He picks up his phone, starts looking for a place to eat, and smells, if not happy, then at least content.</p><p>That's good enough for now.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peter wants nothing more than to take Stiles back to his apartment, spread Stiles out on his bed and <i>feast</i>, fill the room, fill <i>every</i> room, with their scents, but when they drive into Beacon Hills, Stiles reminds Peter to head to the loft. </p>
<p>"Derek asked us to, after all," Stiles says, texting someone -- probably Derek. "Well. Ordered, more like, but still." Once he's done, Stiles drops his phone in the cupholder and pulls down his long sleeves from where he's had them pushed up around his elbows all day. Peter doesn't like that they cover the mating bite but he understands. Better to get the lay of the land first when it comes to Derek. "That doesn't mean we have to tell him anything tonight. We can wait for the big reveal." </p>
<p>Peter's tempted but he remembers the days before he took the alpha spark from Laura, when he was omega and alone, no pack bonds to anchor him and his wolf half-mad inside of him. The ache of those memories, the yearning for connection, for pack, for <i>anyone</i>, is something deeply ingrained him in now; he has Stiles' bond, and it's a beautiful, impossibly strong thing, but he's greedy for more. "No," he says, and surprises himself with the lack of reluctance in his voice. "I at least want to offer Derek pack bonds. We can wait on what you are, if you want. He --" </p>
<p>Stiles cuts him off. "How 'bout we see how the conversation goes," he says, and offers his hand. Peter takes it in his, laces their fingers together, glances at Stiles and meets Spark-white eyes with his own alpha-red. "If it makes sense to bring it up, we will. I don't -- I don't like the thought of hiding from Derek." Peter hums in agreement and Stiles takes a deep breath in. "What if Lydia's there, too?" he asks. </p>
<p>"Lydia's up to you," Peter says, after a moment's thought. "She's next, after Derek, but it doesn't have to be tonight if you don't want it to be." </p>
<p>"I think --," Stiles starts, trails off. Peter squeezes Stiles' hand, feels an impression of Stiles' hesitation and worry and want down their bond, can smell the echoing remnants of a hurricane in his scent, all ferocity and tightly-leashed <i>power</i>. "I think we should wait, with Lydia. Derek, tonight, sure, but -- I think we should talk to him first. He'll be your second; he deserves some input and including him in our plans will go further to reassure him of the pack bond than any words might." </p>
<p>Peter laughs, a little -- low and heated and so very, very amused. "You know my nephew well, Stiles." </p>
<p>If they were anyone else, if Peter didn't have the strength of their bond thrumming inside of him, if he hadn't seen the proof of it with his own two eyes, if he couldn't glance over and lick the scarred imprint of his teeth in Stiles' right arm, he might be jealous. </p>
<p>Stiles grins, shifts in his seat a little as he watches the streets of Beacon Hills through the window. Peter wonders what he sees, wonders if each shop and store and house and alleyway has its own story buried in Stiles' memories. Sometimes he thinks he'll never have enough time to tease out everything Stiles is thinking and sometimes the challenge of it, of learning every micron of Stiles, sends his pulse rocketing and his fangs dripping saliva in hunger. </p>
<p>"You've always been my alpha," Stiles says, the smile turning into a smirk along the edges as if he knows what hearing that does to Peter. He probably does, the little shit. "But Derek -- Derek came close. Closer than anyone else, even if I never held pack bonds with him. I think -- we haven't had the same lives, obviously, but I think I understand Derek at a level that most would scoff at, hearing me say that." </p>
<p>Stiles might not feel guilt or regret the way that Derek seems to wear both like skin, but they both carry so much fucking <i>sorrow</i>. Peter could vow to never cause either of them an ounce of sadness, could swear to kill anything that might even dream of doing so, but it would still never be enough. </p>
<p>"Will he forgive me for Laura?" Peter asks. Stiles opens his mouth, scent flaring with fury, and Peter says, quietly, "You might tell me not to regret killing her, that pack law even justified it, but she was his sister and his alpha and his only pack for years. Laura's just one thing of many that stands between us but she's the most important." </p>
<p>"Was Talia big on teaching her kids pack law?" Stiles asks. </p>
<p>Peter has to think about that. He was raised with knowledge of all the laws, even the ones the Hales didn't follow, but he was always expected to be the Hale executioner; knowing <i>why</i> he was going to kill someone was always as important as the how. Talia, too, was taught the law, even if she didn't always listen. </p>
<p>He casts his mind back, tries to remember, and finally says, "If anyone was taught, it was just Laura, but I don't think -- no, Talia wasn't. She wanted to modernise the pack, do more with diplomacy and discussion than by law and judgment. I tried to tell her that they all needed to know but she -- you're saying that Derek doesn't <i>know</i>," he realises, knows he sounds winded by the sudden epiphany. "He doesn't know." </p>
<p>"And you never had a chance to tell him," Stiles says, gentle. "Which might be for the best, because I don't think he would've listened before. But he will now. He'll want to learn -- if not from us, then we can always send him to Satomi for lessons, let her teach him as a neutral third party. For now, I think he'll agree to pack bonds, but I think eventually, once he knows? Once he understands why you had to do it? He'll <i>accept</i> them. It might not be today, or tomorrow, or this year, but -- yeah, Peter. I think he'll forgive you for Laura." </p>
<p>Thankfully there's not too much farther to go or else Peter would have to stop the car and lean over the centre console to haul Stiles into his lap and bury his face in Stiles' scent. Instead, Peter maintains tight control over his thoughts for the next three blocks and parks the car. He doesn't even have time to turn the car off before Stiles is getting out, coming around and opening Peter's door, crouching down and fitting his hands to Peter's cheeks, pulling their foreheads together. </p>
<p>"We can wait," Stiles murmurs, as Peter gasps for breath at the thought of having his nephew <i>back</i>. He doesn't even know why he's reacting this way, why the mere thought of it is sending his mind spiralling sideways, the wolf inside only leashed by the bond to the Spark and the way that the Spark is holding him, grounding him, anchoring him. </p>
<p>He supposes it has a lot to do with the contradictions of being a modern Hale, with the way that their wolves clamour for connection, for family, for <i>pack</i>, and how for so long Talia ignored that. She was always insistent that they were more than their instincts and Peter tried so hard to obey her, attempting to sate his wolf's need for kin any way he could and just barely maintaining control. </p>
<p>Now, mated to a Spark who has done nothing the past week but <i>demand</i> that Peter indulge his instincts -- talking to Peter's wolf, meeting Peter's desires with his own, being as proud to show off their bonds as Peter revels in them, sharing blood and sex and breath -- he's further away from Talia's expectations than ever. And now he might even have Derek as well: Derek, who's become divorced from his wolf in a way that has <i>hurt</i> Peter to see, that divide possibly healing with the promised acceptance of bonds that would demand nothing less than complete recognition of both man <i>and</i> wolf.</p>
<p>Stiles keeps one hand on Peter's face, curls the other around Peter's throat and strokes his fingers down the back of Peter's neck, nails digging in just enough to bring Peter back, the ache of the physical sting guiding him. </p>
<p>"We'll tell him tonight," Peter murmurs, once words have come back, once the desire to lick Derek's cheeks and tear Talia apart have faded into the background enough so that he can grip sanity tight with both hands. "And call Alpha Ito tomorrow?" </p>
<p>"Maybe the day after," Stiles says. Peter can hear the grin in his voice. "We'll have Lydia tomorrow, probably." </p>
<p>Peter groans something unintelligible, inhales the scent of his mate a few more times, and then leans back, takes a few deep breaths to centre himself. He gives Stiles a heavy-lidded look, lets heat fill his voice, and says, "We have Lydia tomorrow <i>afternoon</i>." </p>
<p>Stiles raises an eyebrow, grinning as he stands up and stretches, pops his back and his neck. "Why, Peter," he drawls, "do we have plans tomorrow morning I don't know about?" </p>
<p>Peter growls, turns the car off and then gets out of it, closing the door behind him. He grips Stiles' wrists, pushes Stiles against the car and crowds against him, nose tracing the curve of Stiles' cheekbone. "I'm going to take you home and <i>eat you alive</i>," he snarls. </p>
<p>"Big bad wolf," Stiles croons. "Should I be scared?" A rumble comes up Peter's throat, straight from the wolf, and he bares his teeth, feels them drop into fangs, feels the fingers around Stiles' wrists grow claws, feels the press of his shift at the edges of his control. "Aw," Stiles says, barely holding back a grin. His eyes burn white, the full press of his scent untangles itself, stretching up and around Peter with the shivering weight of tangible sunlight, and he coos out, "<i>Puppy</i>." Peter snaps fangs at him and Stiles just laughs. "<i>My</i> puppy," he amends, and when he rubs noses with Peter, Peter's wolf disappears in a snarl of fizzing luminescence, bound back inside Peter's body. </p>
<p>Peter reels, leans against Stiles, forehead pressed to Stiles' shoulder. His heart's racing, the faintest whine coming from the wolf, and he can't focus on anything with the full substance of the Spark let loose -- can't focus on anything except staying here, like this, surrounded and protected and <i>safe</i> in the middle of the Spark's power. </p>
<p>Stiles gradually draws his magic in, inch-by-inch, and by the time it's gone, with only the topmost layer of his scent still noticeable, Peter's head is clear, his thoughts his own once again. </p>
<p>"We should go in," Peter says. "The sooner we do, the sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can go <i>home</i>." </p>
<p>"Derek's been watching us since we parked," Stiles says. "I can feel his eyebrows from here." </p>
<p>Peter -- reluctantly -- pushes himself back from Stiles, offers Stiles a hand and can't help the way he <i>knows</i> his scent has turned gloating when Stiles doesn't hesitate to accept it. Stiles rolls his eyes but smells pleased, amused, happy. </p>
<p>The two start walking to the door; they pass Lydia's car and Peter takes in the way it smells of empty coffee cups and pastry crumbs, the slight taste, in the back of his throat, of dust. Lydia's been worried and hasn't cared to hide it when she usually makes sure that every part of her life pretends, at least on the surface, to a level of perfection that most would never question. Being able to taste the dust, smell the remnants of food and drink, it's wildly out of character. </p>
<p>Peter doesn't say anything about, just tugs Stiles along a little faster as they go into the building and up the stairs. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>When they get to Derek's floor, they see the door open, Derek waiting for them. His eyes dip to their hands, still joined, but he doesn't say anything, choosing instead to move out of the way so that they can come in. Peter watches as Derek's nostrils flare, as he blinks at the layering of Peter's scent inside of Stiles' and vice versa, and as his eyebrows furrow. </p>
<p>"Stiles," Lydia breathes out, when they enter the loft. She comes barrelling their way and Stiles lets go of Peter to catch Lydia when she throws herself into Stiles' arms. Stiles holds her tight, buries his face in her hair. Derek's eyes flick from Lydia to Peter and his scent carries with it a tinge of confusion at the way Peter doesn't react. Usually, Peter would make a comment, brush against Stiles, do <i>something</i> to break Stiles apart from whoever else has his attention and bring Stiles' focus back to him; part of it's Peter, which Derek's always been familiar with, but part of it was the courting instincts, which Derek -- might have noticed. Huh. Peter never asked Stiles if he thought Derek knew about that. </p>
<p>Lydia eventually pulls back, disentangling herself from Stiles and then holding him by the shoulders as she looks him over. "You look better," she says. "<i>Much</i> better. But something's different." Her eyes, narrowed, scan Stiles from top to bottom and back up again. </p>
<p>"Tomorrow," Stiles tells her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Before, Peter might've seen something romantic about the gesture but now, knowing what he does of Sparks and what Lydia is, all he sees is something paternal, protective. "Peter and I literally just drove back into town. There's something we wanna talk about with Derek but I mostly just wanna sleep for the next twelve hours. So -- tomorrow. All the time you need and all the brainpower I'll have, fully rested." </p>
<p>"Promise?" Lydia asks. She smells worried but amused, scent full of ice and steel and bone and the taste of howling wind underneath it all. Peter blinks, the wolf tilting its head, when he realises that part of her scent -- the part that smells of bone ash and the promise of more -- reminds him of Béa. There's a hint of yew, as well, in her base scent; it's similar to the tinge of yew berries in Stiles' scent, but Lydia's is younger, like a sapling, and not quite as full. Still -- her having the promise of a gift that can even compare to Stiles and Béa reminds Peter that Lydia's more than a mere banshee. She'll grow into the gift and will most likely end up being one of the more deadly non-humans because of it.</p>
<p>Stiles gives her a tender smile that makes Peter bite back a grin. "Promise," he says. "We'll meet at my house, around one? I'll get the coffee and you can catch me up on all the school I missed." </p>
<p>"After we talk," Lydia says in agreement. Her eyes flick from Stiles' to rest on Peter. She looks thoughtful, the worry in her scent overwhelming the amusement for a brief moment, and adds, "Peter can come. Make him pick up the coffee." </p>
<p>"He's involved," Stiles says. "He'd be there anyway. But sure, I'll let him buy the snacks." </p>
<p>Lydia makes a noise under her breath and stalks past to Stiles to stand in front of Peter. One corner of his lip curls, meeting her gaze, but there's nothing confrontational about the challenge -- not enough to bring out his wolf, anyway. She presses one finger to his breastbone, scarlet-tipped nail pricking almost hard enough to draw blood even through his shirt. "Almond croissants," she says, "from the bakery on Fifth. And the biggest vanilla latte they have. Stiles will have --" </p>
<p>"I know what Stiles likes," Peter says, cutting her off. He tries not to be rude about it even though the wolf is snarling at the implication that anyone knows Stiles better than Stiles' <i>mate</i>. "We'll see you tomorrow, Lydia." </p>
<p>The skin around her eyes tightens as if she wants to glare at him but refuses to allow herself to do so. She huffs, tosses her hair back over her shoulders, and leaves, glancing back at Derek before she does. Peter's not sure what conclusions she and Derek have drawn or what they were talking about before Peter and Stiles arrived, but he's intrigued by the way her look has Derek setting his shoulders, lifting his chin in acknowledgment and unspoken argument, both. </p>
<p>With Lydia gone, silence falls over the three of them. Stiles makes a break for the kitchen, fills up three glasses with water and takes them to the table. He pulls two chairs close together and sits down in one of them, kicks the other one back a little in invitation. Peter rolls his eyes but does as directed, sitting down next to Stiles and inhaling the smell of a joyous, sunlight summer afternoon, all cut grass and blooming trees and sugar and happiness. Stiles is enjoying this, then. </p>
<p>Peter kicks at him, softly, even as Derek's walking to sit at the table across from them, moving cautiously. </p>
<p>"Lydia's right," he says. "You do look better. You smell better, too. And something <i>is</i> different." He pauses, watches as Stiles takes a sip of water, waits until Stiles sets his glass back down. It's instinctual, Peter thinks, rather than a choice or discomfort with the coming discussion; that bodes well for Derek joining their pack, joining them. "What happened?" </p>
<p>Stiles leans back in his chair, looks at Peter with his eyebrows raised. Peter reaches over, runs his fingers through Stiles' hair, yearns to be able to touch Stiles' neck, to leave his scent and mark on Stiles' throat, squeezes Stiles' shoulder instead, thumb digging, just a little, into the scabs that Stiles hasn't bothered to fully heal yet. </p>
<p>"Stiles told me why he wasn't well," Peter says, gaze moving back to Derek. "And what it would take to fix it. So we did." </p>
<p>Derek makes a face, says, "Just tell me."</p>
<p>Peter would never admit to being nervous, especially when he has Stiles on his side, but -- he is. "We didn't go to San Francisco," Peter starts off, slow. "We went to New Orleans."</p>
<p>"That's a -- you weren't gone long enough for that," Derek says. He's frowning now, doing the math in his head. "You didn't fly; you don't smell of airports. You -- <i>why</i>. And how did Stiles lie about that on the phone?"</p>
<p>Stiles elbows Peter when he hesitates to answer. "Come on," Stiles murmurs. "Tell him, Peter. He deserves to know. You <i>want</i> him to know."</p>
<p>Peter opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He whines, low, and squeezes Stiles' leg under the table, claws out and digging through Stiles' jeans. He wants to tell Derek everything, wants to smell honest submission from Derek, wants to dig his teeth into Derek's flesh and <i>bite</i> Derek into their pack. He feels his fangs drop, gives Stiles a plaintive look and knows shame is spiralling through his scent. </p>
<p>"I was sick because of the nogitsune," Stiles says. He shifts in his chair, puts one hand over Peter's, still gripping Stiles' thigh. At the touch, the slight heat of Spark-light buried under Stiles' skin, Peter's wolf retreats; his fangs and claws recede though the power of speech is still just barely beyond him. "Part of how we separated, it left me -- sick. I needed an anchor. My pack bond to Scott isn't very strong; it's barely stronger than thread. I needed something -- better." </p>
<p>Derek shakes his head. "It never felt right," he says. "But I thought it was just me, something I couldn't -- you've never treated him like an alpha. His rising, there wasn't much time between that and the nogitsune, and it's not unheard of for some bonds to take longer to settle, but I thought --." </p>
<p>Stiles shrugs one shoulder, then leans and rests his head on Peter's shoulder. The increased physical contact helps calm Peter even further, as does the thought that Stiles isn't hiding, isn't <i>ashamed</i> -- not that Peter thought he was, but the thought had crossed his mind that Stiles might tone down what they are in front of others. Knowing that Stiles isn't willing to do so, that he's not going to change his behaviour from how he's been acting the past week, that Stiles is finally showing others who he is, the <i>real</i> him, isn't hiding what he wants, has Peter's wolf more content, now, than anything else. </p>
<p>"Between me and Scott, I was always the one getting him into trouble and hauling him right back out of it," Stiles says. He drums the fingers of his other hand on the table in a rhythm only he can hear. "I made all the plans, did the research, had the car. He always assumed I was his but -- I was with him, but I wasn't his. Brother but not beta, y'know? When I needed a bond, I came to Peter. He's been courting me for months and we'd started forming a bond." </p>
<p>"I wasn't imagining that, then," Derek says, eyes darting between Peter and Stiles. "The courting." </p>
<p>"I was going to wait," Peter admits. He rubs his thumb in circles on Stiles' jeans, in both apology and comfort. "I wanted to give Stiles a chance to leave, grow up, learn. But when he told me he needed a bond, and that <i>he</i> wasn't going to wait, well." </p>
<p>Derek narrows his eyes a little, lips flattening a touch as his scent flares with wariness and disappointment. "You mated?" he asks Peter. "With a <i>teenager</i>?" </p>
<p>"I want to be very clear on this, Derek," Stiles says, and waits for Derek's reluctant nod before going on. "I might wear the scar of Peter's teeth, but I was the one who mated him." His voice softens as he adds, "I know that this -- I know what she did," and Derek's face goes white. "It wasn't your fault. I'll tell you a million times over that it wasn't your fault. But it's not like that with me and Peter. Okay? I need you to believe me when I say that Peter is nothing like her, and my relationship with him is nothing like yours was." </p>
<p>"How did you know?" Derek asks, breathing out the question barely loud enough to hear. Peter <i>aches</i> for the emotion he can hear in Derek's voice. </p>
<p>Stiles gives Derek a smile, a small one, a sad one, and the chemosignals coming off of Stiles speak of nothing so much as sorrow and forgiveness and <i>love</i>. "I'm the research guy," he says. "It's what I do." </p>
<p>Derek holds Stiles' gaze for a long time, then looks away, shifts uncomfortably and gulps down half the glass of water. When he sets the glass back down on the table, having had time to gather himself, Derek says, "So you needed an anchor, needed to mate. You didn't need to go all the way to New Orleans to do that." </p>
<p>"He needed the strongest bond possible," Peter says. "Anchoring to a beta wouldn't have been enough." </p>
<p>Derek's scent spikes a little as a wave of realisation threads through it. He looks between them, lets his eyes settle on Peter for a long, silent minute before he turns his attention back to Stiles. "The strongest mating bond would be with an alpha. Who was in New Orleans, Stiles?" </p>
<p>The smile that crosses Stiles' face is one that speaks of nothing so much as vicious, cruel triumph. Derek flinches, seeing it -- small micromovements of head and shoulder and face that blare out his discomfort to Peter's eyes and wolf. Derek doesn't look away from Stiles, though. Peter's impressed. "An old friend of ours," Stiles says. "The demon wolf is dead." </p>
<p>Derek slumps back in his chair, relief and fear battling through his scent. His eyes slide over to Peter, and Peter unleashes the wolf just a little, enough to feel the red spark of the alpha wolf inside of him look out at Derek. </p>
<p>"Deucalion," Derek says. "You're an alpha again." He glances back at Stiles, eyebrows dipping down at, Peter thinks, the complete lack of care that Stiles is showing. "And you're okay with this?" Derek asks. "Knowing what it means, what Peter was like before, you're --." </p>
<p>Stiles lifts his right arm and sets it on the table palm-up, pushes up his sleeve to show the scar of Peter's mating bite. "I joined his pack," Stiles says. "And then I mated with him. He did it for me, Derek. So yeah, I'm okay with it." </p>
<p>Peter uses his feet to slide Stiles' chair close enough so that he can wrap an arm around Stiles' waist and pull him tight. Stiles lets him, moves with it, and even as Stiles fits his body to Peter's, Peter adds, "He's also my emissary. The triple bond, it anchored him enough to start the healing." He takes a deep breath, waits for Derek to meet his eyes, and says, "We want you to join our pack, join the Hale pack. We're going to reclaim the territory, heal the nemeton, build a new pack house. We want you to be part of that. I know you were planning on leaving, but -- we want you to stay. With us. I want you to stay with us." </p>
<p>"I --," Derek stops, looks stunned. </p>
<p>"Peter's sane now," Stiles says. "He's anchored. He's not going to go crazy again." </p>
<p>Derek's shaking his head. "You can't know that," he says. "There's no guarantee. Especially with Deucalion's alpha spark, and if he <i>does</i> lose it, it'll be twice as difficult to take him down." </p>
<p>Peter growls at the idea of anyone trying to kill him, but Stiles knocks one foot against one of Peter's. The scent wafting out from him fills with devilish humour, a sense of anticipation and relief, and Stiles tells Derek, "I guarantee that if Peter goes crazy again, I'll pull him back. If he can't be made to see sense, then I'll kill him myself." </p>
<p>"I know that you -- but you're <i>human</i>," Derek says. "Mated, sure, anchor, probably, but still human." </p>
<p>Now Peter understands the relief in Stiles' scent. "Not human," Peter says, as casually as if he's commenting on the weather.</p>
<p>Derek stares at Stiles, searches his face for anything that might give away what flavour of non-human he's become. "The nogitsune?" he guesses. "It left something." </p>
<p>"No," Stiles says, soft. He closes his eyes and sets his shoulders. </p>
<p>His scent is the first thing to come out, unfurling itself in large waves like wings that fill the kitchen to overflowing in a matter of seconds. Stiles cracks his neck, lets out a sigh of what sounds like decompression; when he opens his eyes again they burn Spark-white and echo the glow pouring out of every inch of Stiles' skin. </p>
<p>Derek throws himself back from the table, chair clattering to the floor. He stands there, staring, as his eyes flare wolf-blue, then he drops to the ground, curls up in on himself, hands on the back of his neck, as the sound of lupine whining fills the air. </p>
<p>Stiles stands up, so Peter does as well, and Stiles goes around one side of the table while Peter goes around the other. Peter drops to his knees next to Derek, puts his hand on Derek's back, feels the way Derek's trembling. Stiles sinks to one knee in front of Derek, reaches out and puts his hands over Derek's, strokes them. </p>
<p>"Hush, wolf," he says. Derek goes silent, instantly, though the tremours running through his muscles double in intensity. "Oh, Derek. Calm, please. It's just me." </p>
<p>"Spark," Derek murmurs. "<i>Spark</i>." </p>
<p>Stiles laughs, a little chuff of noise, and blinks back the power, the blinding glare of his eyes and the press of his power, until there's just a little extra light outlining him. He shifts, settles onto his ass and crosses his legs, sets his elbows on his knees and rests his chin in his hands. "Look at me, Derek, please. Don't worry; I put it away, it won't hurt. I'll never hurt you." </p>
<p>It takes Derek four or five minutes to uncurl enough to look at Stiles, and, even then, he only looks at Stiles' chin, won't meet his eyes. Peter shifts as well, wraps an arm around Derek and leans down to press himself into his nephew's side, lending Derek his solidity and his surety of Stiles.</p>
<p>"You mated a Spark," Derek whispers, almost collapsed against him, no strength whatsoever in his muscles.</p>
<p>"Stiles wasn't lying when he said he mated me," Peter says. "But yes. When he bared his wrist, I bit down and cemented the bond." </p>
<p>Stiles ducks his head a little, trying to catch Derek's eyes, but Derek's chin dips down even as he tilts his head to the side, baring his throat. "You believe me, now, when I say I can make sure Peter stays as sane as he ever gets?" Derek nods. "It's your choice," Stiles says, "whether or not to join our pack. But Peter and I both want you if you decide to stay." Stiles stands up, rests his hand on Derek's hair for a moment in some kind of benediction that Peter doesn't understand, says, "I'll be in the car," and leaves as silently as Peter's ever heard Stiles move before. </p>
<p>Peter waits until he hears the echo of the car door closing shut before he moves; he reaches up to the table, gets Derek's glass of water, sits on his heels and waits for Derek to unfold himself. When Derek starts to move, ten or so minutes later, Peter presses the glass in Derek's hands. </p>
<p>"He's a <i>Spark</i>," Derek whispers, as if he can't believe it -- that, and as if he thinks Stiles might still be able to hear him. "All the -- and he's --." </p>
<p>"From what he's told me, he didn't come into the full use of his power until after the Whittemore boy's first few kills," Peter says. "So if you're worried about anything that happened during my first reign as alpha, he was still human then. Mostly human. Not the Spark." </p>
<p>Derek shakes his head, not in disbelief, Peter thinks, but still stunned by the situation, by Stiles, by what it means to be offered pack bonds with a Spark. "And you -- how are you -- even when he hid it, I wanted to --." </p>
<p>Peter laughs a little. "The first time he showed me everything, I ended up clutching his ankle and begging. For what, I don't even know now. But he <i>claimed</i> me. And he's still Stiles underneath. He -- what I'm about to tell you goes nowhere, Derek." He waits for Derek to nod before saying, "He hates what he is, sometimes. Hates what it means for his relationships with the rest of us. He doesn't want to be treated -- well, like a Spark, actually, I guess. He just wants to be treated like a normal human. After we mated, when the frenzy hit, he --." Peter stops, smiles at the memory, doesn't know what Derek's reading from his scent or his posture but, for once, doesn't care. "The wolf didn't want to hurt him. Didn't want to be above him. And Stiles just -- told me it was okay. He let me hurt him. He's still carrying the marks from it even though he could've stopped me or healed them instantly." </p>
<p>"I thought I smelled old blood," Derek admits. He looks down at the glass of water in his hands, says, "I --. It doesn't surprise me that he doesn't want to come across as changed. But he is. He can't not be." </p>
<p>"Which is why he has the pack," Peter says. "Not to protect him from others; he can do that without us. But to protect him from himself. There's a lot you don't know about Stiles, a lot I only learned because we were stuck in the car for days together, but Stiles is brutally honest. When he said we both wanted you in our pack, he meant it and so did I." Peter pauses, gathers his courage, says, "There are things we need to talk about, I know, and things I'd ask you to do if you joined the pack. I also know you said you wanted to leave, to go and see Cora. If you still want to, then -- but you'll have a place here if you ever decide to come back." </p>
<p>Derek's shaking his head, started the moment Peter mentioned him leaving. It's made hope rise up in him, a dangerous amount, but Peter doesn't bite it back, doesn't keep it from twisting out and joining the trepidation in his scent. </p>
<p>"I'll stay," Derek says. "I'll stay. And -- yes. You're right. There's a lot to talk about, all three of us. But -- pack," he says, and Peter knows he's not imagining the yearning in Derek's voice, can feel it in the way he, himself, longs for Derek, wants to curl up with Derek and sleep pressed skin-to-skin, wants to hunt on moonless nights with him and howl with him on nights when the moon hangs heavy in the air, wants to run and tussle and play with <i>pack</i>. "Yes," Derek says, barely louder than a whisper. "Yes to pack." </p>
<p>Peter's wolf leaps inside of him, presses outwards until Peter's showing red eyes and fangs and claws, the beta-shift coming over him with enough force to leave him breathless. He can <i>feel</i> the bond grow into being inside of him, a long, coiling sliver of moonlight stretching outwards from his wolf to Derek's, reeking of fur and bloodied breath, with cool winds and old trees, with the pain and love of family. He leans forward even as Derek's turning his face away, baring the long line of his throat to Peter, and as Derek whispers, again, "Yes," Peter opens his mouth and <i>bites</i>.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Peter makes his way down the stairs a little unsteadily, a wave of dizziness hitting him when he walks outside and breathes in the night air. The bond between him and Derek floods his awareness until it's all he knows, then disappears just as fast; the anchoring was instant but the settling is taking a while. It's already been close to an hour since Stiles left them alone to talk. </p>
<p>Peter's halfway to the car when Stiles unfolds himself from the passenger seat, getting out and crossing the distance between them in what feels like an instant. Peter lurches unsteadily and near-collapses in Stiles' hold. </p>
<p>"Whoa, Peter, okay, hi, there you are," Stiles says, catching him and staggering a little under the weight. "You okay, wolf?" </p>
<p>"I accepted," Derek says, behind Peter. "It hit Peter hard. Um. Sorry, I --" </p>
<p>Stiles runs a hand down Peter's cheek, providing a measure of strength to get Peter upright. "Don't apologise," Stiles tells Derek, even as he's tugging Peter over to the car. "Uh. I don't know what the appropriate thing to say here is. Congratulations? Welcome? I'm sorry you're stuck with us but no take-backs, you're ours now?" </p>
<p>Derek snorts and, between him and Stiles, Peter ends up dumped in the backseat. He doesn't mind <i>too</i> much. </p>
<p>"Told 'im to --" Peter starts to say. </p>
<p>"I figured," Stiles cuts him off, shoving himself inside just long enough to press a kiss to Peter's lips. "Makes sense. We should've counted on it." </p>
<p>The door closes and Peter curls up, looks out where he sees Stiles grin at Derek, sees Derek duck his head, tips of his ears turning red. "You got pjs?" </p>
<p>"Yeah," Derek says, and holds up his left hand to show Stiles a backpack. "Clothes for tomorrow, too." </p>
<p>"Awesome," Stiles says. "Let's go make the alpha's place smell like pack." </p>
<p>Peter blinks; when he opens his eyes, he's lost enough time that Derek's in the passenger seat and Stiles is behind the wheel, streetlights doing a slow in-and-out dance as they drive across the city to Peter's apartment. He closes his eyes again, just to blink, and forgets to open them.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peter wakes up, groaning and arching his hips. His eyelids are heavy but he manages to lift them and feasts his eyes on the sight of Stiles working Peter's cock in and out of his mouth, drool gathering at the corners of his lips, eyes glinting white even as he smells of mischievous enjoyment. </p>
<p>"<i>Fuck</i>," Peter breathes, curling one hand in Stiles' hair and letting the other grow claws, anchor him to the bed. </p>
<p>Stiles pulls off, rests his chin on Peter's thigh, grins wickedly and says, "Derek went for a jog. He said he was gonna make it a long one but I didn't want to waste time." </p>
<p>Peter laughs, runs fingers down Stiles' cheek. "Greedy little monster," he says. "Come here." </p>
<p>He hauls Stiles up more than Stiles moves himself, but soon enough they're trading lazy kisses that quickly grow heated. The smell of them is thick, joined with a hint of blood from where Peter's claws have drawn tiny stipes of blood down Stiles' back. Peter curls one leg around Stiles' and rolls them, propping himself up on his elbows as Stiles starts to laugh in delight.</p>
<p>"What're you in the mood for?" Stiles asks, reaching up to trace his thumb over Peter's lower lip, index finger tracing the points of the fangs starting to drop in Peter's mouth. </p>
<p>"You," Peter replies. "Any preferences?" </p>
<p>Stiles purses his lips, makes a show of thinking hard, and eventually asks, "How offensive is calling it doggy style when you're talking about sex with a werewolf?" </p>
<p>He's such a little <i>shit</i>.</p>
<p>Peter bites at Stiles' belly, says, "You want me to <i>mount</i> you, Stiles, you get on your hands and knees." </p>
<p>Stiles darts up and presses a kiss to Peter's mouth, breathes out, "Yes, alpha," and rolls over underneath Peter. He doesn't push Peter out of the way to get to his hands and knees, he doesn't have to; Stiles just rolls his hips and bends his back as if every move of every muscle is connected to a string in Peter that pushes and prods until Peter's settling back on his heels. He strokes Stiles' flank, runs his claws over the scabs on Stiles' hips -- still there from the morning after their mating -- and holds his breath as the points of his claws catch, pull a little, then skim on downwards.</p>
<p>He feels the beta shift coming on and doesn't do anything to stop it, probably couldn't, not when faced with his mate like this, the curve of his spine so perfect in presentation, the scent of him so eager and willing, all spiced and coy, like the sweetest of desserts with the promise of alcoholic intoxication hiding underneath spun sugar. His hands settle on Stiles' ass and squeeze bruisingly hard before he buries his face in Stiles' ass and eats him out like a man starving. </p>
<p>Peter gets lost in it, in the taste and the smell and the sound of Stiles' cursing, panting, even begging, a few times, loud and howling when Peter lets his fangs scratch just the <i>faintest</i> touch to Stiles' rim. The wolf inside of him is panting, snarling, and Peter thinks he must be doing much the same; all he feels is sensation, all he <i>is</i> is bound up in instinct and need and <i>mate</i>.</p>
<p>He rears back a little when something smacks him right in the middle of his forehead, and Stiles' scent floods over with amusement. "Put the claws away and lube me up," he says. It takes Peter a moment to comprehend the words, long enough that Stiles has time to say, "I can do it if you need me to, Peter." </p>
<p>"No," Peter says, and takes his eyes off of Stiles long enough to find the small bottle, uncapping it and squeezing some over his fingers, some right over Stiles' hole. </p>
<p>Stiles hisses, says, "That's fucking cold, <i>asshole</i>."</p>
<p>Peter snorts, mutters, "Asshole," and promptly starts to stretch Stiles open. Stiles breathes out a sigh, something wordless, when Peter goes from two fingers to three, and Peter chuckles, the sound dark and cruel. "Be glad I'm using anything," he says, and decides that he's done enough, that Stiles is open enough, that he's <i>not waiting</i> anymore. He drizzles a little more lube on his cock, sits up on his heels, tugs Stiles back a little, and falls inside his mate. </p>
<p>Stiles is so tight, so hot, and his scent and words both tell Peter he wants more, wants it harder and faster and <i>base</i>, primal and instinctual, sex the way the wolf wants. Peter gives into it, briefly thanks a deity that <i>must</i> exist, somehow, that Stiles is so perfect and so powerful, enough that Peter can let go without having to worry about his partner, then just -- dissolves into the rut.</p>
<p>He pounds into Stiles, hips working away with ferocity, and his claws dig into Stiles' skin, one set caught on the outer curve of Stiles' shoulder, the other low on Stiles' hip, dug deep and curling so he can move Stiles any way he wants. Peter throws his head back and howls, hears an answering scream from Stiles a moment later, and then Peter's pressing Stiles down into the mattress, fucking into him without mercy. The bond between them sings just as loud as they are, a rattling hum Peter can feel urging him on, the scent of pomegranate and ambrosia flooding the room with violent force. He can feel the heat boiling up from his ankles, fizzing across Stiles' skin, and when he comes, Peter digs his teeth into Stiles' back, right over his spine, and pulls Stiles into orgasm with him. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Peter passes out, must, because when he opens his eyes, he's lying on his back and Stiles is sitting up, next to him, freshly showered and wearing a pair of Peter's sweatpants. </p>
<p>"Hey," Stiles says, all white eyes and moonlight glow. He's smiling, reaches out and runs his fingertips across Peter's forehead and down one cheek, mimicking the scenting that a mated pair often exchange. </p>
<p>Peter reaches up, performs the same action on Stiles, then sits up and takes Stiles in. There's a new set of scabs in the curve of his hips, though they look like they're mostly-healed rather than just caused, and a matching set on his right shoulder. Peter winces, seeing them. </p>
<p>"Oh, that's nothing," Stiles says, casually, and twists in place so that Peter can see Stiles' back. There are a few lines of welts, a handful of bruises scattered on the small of his back, but by far the most obvious wound is the bite mark. Peter barely remembers leaving it; his hand lifts, almost of his own accord, and he grazes the faintest touch possible over the scarred indent of his teeth. "I thought you were trying to peel my skin off with that one," Stiles says. "Nearly hit bone." </p>
<p>Peter flinches, pulls back quickly. Even as Stiles is turning back around to face him, Peter shakes his head, says, "I'm --" </p>
<p>Stiles puts his hand over Peter's mouth, says, "Not apologising," firmly. "We've had this discussion before, Peter. If I wanted to stop you, I could have. If I wanted to heal it without any sign of it left on me, I would have. This is my choice. It's <i>my</i> choice to wear your mark. Granted, I won't do it that often -- we both like you biting me enough that I'd end up covered in your teeth if we weren't sensible about it -- but I'm keeping this one. Understood?" </p>
<p>He's not using the tone of voice that Peter's come to think of as Spark-command but it's close, showing off Stiles' utter refusal to hear anything said against it. Faced with that, with a mate who <i>wants</i> Peter's claim and can't be harmed by it, who's Peter to argue? </p>
<p>"You're going to spoil me, dear-heart," he says, instead, watching as all of Stiles' spine fades into pleasure at Peter's acceptance. There's a trace of surprise in Stiles' scent, just <i>barely</i> enough to pick out, so Peter sits up, brushes his nose against Stiles', and murmurs, "Not good people."</p>
<p>Stiles laughs, gives Peter a wet, messy kiss, and tells him, "We're good enough people that you're going to get in the shower and I'm going to start a pot of coffee, so Derek has the bathroom free when he gets back and doesn't have to deal with how much you reek of sex. I'm gonna make some toast; you want anything? There are some eggs in the fridge that haven't gone bad yet and you have some sausage in the freezer. I could make omelets." </p>
<p>Peter doesn't know how Stiles knows what food he has unless he's been snooping, but he chalks it down to some combination of the Spark and Stiles' innate curiosity and starts moving to get out of bed. Stiles gets up first, offers him a hand, and pulls him up, grinning. "I'm good with eggs," Peter says, "but I'll make them. I'll make your toast, too." </p>
<p>"I know it's your need to provide," Stiles says, gently, "but I can handle toast. You can take care of lunch. Lydia said the bakery on Fifth; they have those really good mini quiches that I only ever get when you buy them for me." The quiches are overpriced, and unhealthy, and Stiles moans every time he bites into one. Peter will buy however many Stiles wants, whenever Stiles wants them. As if he can read that off of Peter's face, Stiles grins, again, and darts in to press a kiss to the corner of Peter's mouth. "Don't forget to clean under your claws," he says, and hightails it out of the bedroom. </p>
<p>Peter shakes his head. Stiles is more mercurial than anyone Peter's ever met, more stubborn and so willing to work with the wolf instead of against it or begrudgingly going along with it. He's the most perfect creature that Peter never dared to imagine. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>When Peter emerges from the bathroom, he passes Derek in the hall. Derek tilts his head to the side, baring his neck, and murmurs, "He's eating breakfast," before disappearing into the bathroom in search of his own shower. </p>
<p>Peter frowns, just a little and just for a moment, then makes his way to the kitchen. Stiles is sitting at the counter, set on eating what looks like a whole pile of toast, jars of Nutella and raspberry preserves and lemon curd around him, each with a different knife resting across the open tops. </p>
<p>"Couldn't make up your mind?" Peter asks, mildly, as he grabs Stiles' coffee cup from the counter on the way to the coffee pot. </p>
<p>"Dad only likes jelly," Stiles says between bites. "The really sweet, over-processed shit. And he doesn't like anything lemon and I can't keep chocolate in the house, not with his cholesterol levels being what they are." </p>
<p>Not for the first time, Peter desperately wants to <i>kill</i> the sheriff. Still, for now he'll console himself with the thought that he's providing for his mate, and better than his mate's father ever did.</p>
<p>Peter pours a cup of coffee for himself, adds a little cream, then tops up Stiles' mug. He goes back to the counter, stands across from Stiles and slides Stiles' mug back to him before lifting his own to his nose and breathing in the smell before taking his first sip. Stiles watches him, smile curving up one corner of his mouth; in the background of their quiet companionship, Peter hears the shower start up. </p>
<p>"He's uncomfortable with me around," Stiles says, as he spreads his next piece of toast end-to-end with lemon curd, thick enough that Peter's taste buds and teeth tingle in sympathy. "More than you ever were, even before the claim. Can you feel it?" </p>
<p>"Yes," Peter says, a moment after he opens the bond between him and Derek, cautiously testing what he senses. It's been so long since he's had a pack bond like this, one anchored in blood and brimming with tentative hope, that for a moment he thinks it hasn't settled and he's going to pass out again. It steadies, though -- <i>he</i> steadies, and frowns when he takes in the fear he can feel Derek trying to hide. "It's -- more than I would have expected. I'll talk to him." </p>
<p>Stiles finishes chewing the bite of toast in his mouth, swallows and licks crumbs and a smear of curd off of his thumb. Peter's wolf makes a noise of interest, seeing Stiles' tongue dart out; Stiles rolls his eyes but doesn't hide the smile. "I think -- maybe a claim," Stiles says, thoughtfully. </p>
<p>Suddenly, with a yearning pull in the bottom of his stomach that takes Peter aback, he misses Stiles' white eyes, the honesty and power and beauty of them. Stiles' human eyes are gorgeous, always have been, but there's something about seeing the Spark-white that makes Peter relax into the comfort of their bond, the promise that there aren't any secrets between them, that no one's hiding and even the act of it would be useless. Seeing the Spark reassures Peter that Peter <i>belongs</i> to Stiles, always will, and that Stiles cares for him enough -- smells like love, even if Stiles doesn't think he's capable of feeling it -- to claim him in such a permanent way, deeper than the mate bond but no less sacred. </p>
<p>As if Stiles knows what Peter's thinking -- probably does, to be honest -- he flashes white eyes at Peter, smile turning fond, affectionately silly. </p>
<p>"A claim," Peter says, pulling himself away from Stiles' eyes, stealing a piece of toast from Stiles' stack and slathering it with preserves. He takes a bite, lets the flavour of raspberries flood his mouth, and swallows, gives Stiles a thoughtful look. "What would that entail?" </p>
<p>"Not the same one that I placed on you," Stiles says, firmly. The reluctance Peter felt at the thought of sharing Stiles fades at how certain Stiles sounds. "But everything of mine is part of everything of me, and you're mine, and he's yours, so a -- a confirming claim, let's say, might not -- go amiss. It would strengthen your own bond with him and it might calm down his wolf around me. With his wolf calmer, maybe Derek would be, too, especially if our pack's more traditional than what he's used to. At any rate, it can't make things worse." Stiles waits until Peter's finished his slice of toast before asking, "Do you want to talk to him first? He'd be more comfortable without me around." </p>
<p>The wolf's not impressed with the idea and Peter isn't either. "You're my mate," he says, "which makes you half of the alpha pair of the pack. You're my emissary, too. Derek's going to have to get comfortable with you sooner rather than later." </p>
<p>Stiles clicks his tongue in disapproval; Peter's wolf whimpers and whines, tucking its nose under its paws. "There's no need to be unnecessarily harsh with pack, Peter," he says. "We both know Derek's not going to refuse anything I say, not right now. Better to talk it over with him when he feels like he can speak freely." </p>
<p>"You're right," Peter says, ducking his head and dropping his eyes. It's not what anyone would expect from an alpha, especially a Hale alpha, but Stiles is a Spark and his mate beside. </p>
<p>"I'm always right," Stiles says, breezily. For a moment, Peter thinks that Stiles doesn't <i>understand</i>, but then Stiles gets up, comes around the counter and presses his face to Peter's throat, licks at the skin under his chin, makes a little sound that Peter's never heard anyone except a wolf make before. It's a noise that's not human, not <i>natural</i>, like letting the wolf speak acceptance and forgiveness and love, a lupine sound coming from vocal cords that humans don't possess, owing more to an inner instinct too primal for humans to understand. </p>
<p>Of course Stiles does, though, and of course he knows how best to calm Peter down, to reassure Peter that he's not angry or upset, that he's sorry, at the same time, for upsetting Peter but doesn't regret doing so because it was needed. Of <i>course</i> he's able to speak straight to Peter's wolf; he's done it before, after all. </p>
<p>Peter turns, noses at Stiles' hair, inhales deep, then leans back. "What excuse will you be using to make yourself scarce?" </p>
<p>"No excuse," Stiles says, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to Peter's lips before going back around the counter and picking up one of Peter's henleys, pulling it on over his head quickly. "I'll head back to dad's. God knows he probably hasn't done any cleaning or cooking since I've been gone. It'll give me a chance to do some laundry, pack up some stuff to bring over here, make him some food for the next week. Come over when you and Derek are ready. And don't forget to stop by the bakery or Lydia's liable to scratch your eyes out. I can heat everything up again before she gets there." </p>
<p>Peter's mind is still caught between Stiles' 'pack up some stuff' comment and the sight and scent of Stiles wearing Peter's clothes, so it takes a moment for the rest to filter through. He scowls at the idea of Stiles doing <i>anything</i> for his father, especially the menial household chores that Stiles has been saddled with, all because the sheriff preferred to drink to the bottom of too many bottles rather than be a <i>father</i>. He wants to growl, wants to snarl, wants to absolutely refuse to let Stiles do that man's laundry or cooking or cleaning -- but Peter doesn't. He chooses, instead, to focus on the other thing Stiles said. </p>
<p>"Moving in, are you?" he asks, tone at odds with the glee and triumph in his scent, posture, expression. </p>
<p>Stiles laughs, rolling his eyes, and grabs his keys and backpack. "Only until you find us a proper den, alpha," he says, and blows Peter a kiss. Stiles leaves, then, sliding into his shoes by the front door before he goes. </p>
<p>"Is he serious?" Derek asks, emerging from the hallway. Peter's not sure how long Derek's been listening, can't remember when the shower turned off or if he heard the bathroom door open, but -- it doesn't matter. </p>
<p>"Only when it suits him," Peter says, turning to the coffee pot and pouring Derek a cup, "but more often than most people would assume. When it comes to the den -- yes, he's very serious. Already been setting out a whole string of requirements. Come on, sit down; I'll make you some eggs and you can eat the rest of Stiles' toast." </p>
<p>Derek moves cautiously, chin tilted up to make it easier to scent the air. His eyes dart around, from Stiles' chair, still pushed back from the counter, to the books stacked on the end table by the couch, to the plants on low stands in front of the window, Boston fern and aloe and chamomile. He settles, carefully, on the stool next to the one Stiles used and takes the coffee from Peter when Peter offers it. </p>
<p>Peter takes the eggs out of the fridge, gets a pan warming on the stove, has to open five drawers to find where Stiles has hidden the spatula this time, and makes a noise of victory when he locates it. </p>
<p>Derek clears his throat; Peter doesn't turn around, just lets his scent answer for him. Derek always did respond better to the intricacies of scent more than anyone else in their family, no matter how much he repressed his wolf and his wolf's instincts. </p>
<p>"What requirements?" Derek asks. </p>
<p>Peter had been expecting a different question -- what location they're considering; is Peter thinking of trying to rebuild the original house; why is Stiles leaving -- but he'll accept this one as an opening to what has the potential to be a conversation filled with landmines. </p>
<p>"He wants a porch," Peter says, watching the butter melt in the pan, swirling it around to coat the bottom. "A big garden. A big kitchen and a library." Peter cracks four eggs into the pan, tosses salt and pepper over them, as he adds, "He mentioned shelves for his comics and Lydia's young adult novels and your magic realism and poetry."</p>
<p>"Couldn't he just -- he's a Spark," Derek says. "He could -- couldn't he just snap his fingers and make one appear?" </p>
<p>Peter tilts his head back and forth, says, "He could, but he never would, even if that would make a great many things much, much easier." Peter gets out a plate, flips the eggs, turns off the burner. "From what I understand, a Spark's magic is so reactive to their wishes, both spoken and subconscious, that they all create a code," and he stops there, scenting the sudden burst of panic and doubt and skepticism in Derek's scent. "A real code," he says, sharply. "Not one that even <i>they</i> can circumvent. Maybe law is a better word. And Stiles has forced his magic into obeying this law." </p>
<p>He pauses, waits for Derek's scent to even back out, takes the time to plate the eggs and put the pan in the sink before he keeps going. </p>
<p>"I don't know what his law is," Peter says, giving Derek the plate and pushing over the last three pieces of toast and the raspberry preserves. "I don't even know if Stiles does. But it has a lot to do with free will and choice and not using his Spark for things that can be otherwise accomplished. Like making the bed," he says, seeing the question on Derek's face. </p>
<p>Derek snorts, even as he's taking a piece of toast and smushing an egg on it before folding it in half, letting the yolk dribble out of the sides. "You always hated making your bed. Serves you right to end up with a mate who won't let you cheat your way out of it." He freezes once he's said that, as if he hadn't even thought twice about it, and something in Peter relaxes. His nephew, the one he remembers from before the fire, before he turned into this guilt-ridden creature who seems so lost all the time, is still there, hidden somewhere inside of Derek. "I --" </p>
<p>"You're not wrong," Peter says, words and scent both calming Derek. "Karmic justice." </p>
<p>Peter takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly as he watches Derek eat. Faster than Peter remembers, and neater, which has Peter wondering -- not for the first time -- what those six years with Laura as his alpha must have been like. Still, it soothes the alpha in him that he provided for his beta, that his beta's eating, and Peter refills Derek's coffee before pulling Stiles' stool to the side of the counter, giving Derek space but also putting them face-to-face, sort of, rather than side-by-side. </p>
<p>"Just tell me," Derek says. </p>
<p>"Stiles is concerned that you feel uncomfortable around him," Peter says. Derek's scent turns worried; the slight tilt of his head, flashing his throat, is meant to defuse any tension that Peter's carrying at the implied slight to the alpha's mate. "I'm not upset," Peter says, and waits for the truth of his statement to make its way through Derek to his wolf. When Derek's sitting a little easier, Peter goes on, "I was, too, when he first told me. But there's something Sparks do that calmed me down. It's a claiming, similar to a bond but -- deeper. He thinks that because he claimed me, that assurance should filter down through the pack bonds, but --," and Peter trails off, trying to find a way to word the possible issue that won't set off Derek's self-loathing or guilt or any kind of resentment at the implication that his previous alphas weren't -- good. </p>
<p>Derek sighs, says, "I'm serious. Just tell me." </p>
<p>Peter nods, once. "You weren't raised with knowledge of pack law," he says, bluntly, "because your mother believed that none of us should be slaves to our instincts. But you've long suppressed your instincts, or at least a good portion of them, and that might be interfering with your recognition of the claim Stiles has on me and, through me, the pack. He thinks that he could do an affirmation of the claim so that you're more comfortable around him, and I want to talk to Alpha Ito about giving you lessons in pack law. She's a neutral third party so you won't have any issue trusting her where you might have them trusting me or Stiles, and she's raised a lot of bitten wolves, so she knows how to instruct." </p>
<p>"The wolf," Derek says, haltingly, "wants -- things. Mom always said that I -- that <i>we</i> -- were human, too. And that --" </p>
<p>"What things," Peter says, interrupting Derek. "What things does your wolf want that your mother told you were wrong?" Derek curls in on himself, lets out a small whining noise. Peter could kick himself. He gets up, goes around the counter and gets between Derek's knees, curls one hand around the back of Derek's neck to press their foreheads together, holds one of Derek's hands in his, fingers twining together. "I'm not upset with you," Peter says, breathing the words right into Derek's face. "I'm furious at your mother, but not at you, never at you." </p>
<p>Derek swallows, licks his lips. He smells of eggs and buttered toast and raspberry preserves, and, underneath that, of wild, barely-restrained desire, the spinning-apart of dust storms and tornadoes, a yearning so powerful that Peter doesn't know how his nephew hasn't shattered apart in the face of it. </p>
<p>With a speed Peter wasn't expecting, Derek licks at Peter's jaw, his chin, and then rubs his cheek on Peter's shoulder, baring his throat to Peter's fangs and letting out short little whimpering noises.</p>
<p>A rumble comes up from his Peter's chest, straight from his wolf to Derek, and Peter sets his teeth to Derek's throat, just holds his fangs there, pressure without bite. Derek goes limp and silent in his hold. Peter takes his teeth off, goes to move back, but Derek clings to him, even wraps one foot around the back of Peter's leg. </p>
<p>"I want -- this," Derek murmurs, barely loud enough for Peter to hear over the anxious rhythm of Derek's heart. "Last night, I was going to sleep on the couch but Stiles said -- he wouldn't let me." That would explain the scent of Derek in Peter's bed, pressed on the sheets. "It's just -- I want -- it's not <i>right</i>." </p>
<p>"Do you want to have sex with me?" Peter asks. Derek pulls back, looks at Peter in shock, shakes his head even as a grimace at the thought crosses his face and his scent flickers with disgust. "Do you want to fuck my mate?" Peter asks next. That question makes Derek go pale, and he shakes his head again, this time faster. "Then I don't care what's considered right or not. We're not human; we don't abide by human rules. We <i>shouldn't</i> and your mother was wrong to try and convince you otherwise." Softening, Peter adds, "It's not your fault, all right? Don't blame yourself."</p>
<p>Derek lets out a choked little laugh, scent and expression both saying that he's well on the way to feeling overwhelmed. "I -- yes," he says. "To the claim. I don't like -- it's <i>Stiles</i>. I want him to be Stiles to me. And -- maybe you can start. With the pack law. I need to know -- I don't want to screw things up any more than I have already. It's already too much." </p>
<p>Peter moves the hand that's been holding Derek's neck, lifts it enough to give Derek a gentle tap on the back of his head. "You're still alive and Stiles is still alive. That's all I care about right now. What happened wasn't any fault of your own." He can tell that Derek wants to argue, is only  not arguing because he doesn't want to upset his alpha, so Peter shakes his head, says, "I was insane; you did the right thing to kill me. No one taught you how to be alpha and, I'm sorry, Derek, but your mother was not a good alpha and I can't imagine she taught Laura how to be one either. Very few people could have foreseen what happened to the Whittemore child and the alpha pack killed your betas -- and most other packs will be impressed that only two died in that confrontation, especially with a darach thrown into the mix. I know that hurt you, but it wasn't your fault. None of this has ever been your fault. If you want to blame anyone, blame the Argents. If it wasn't for them, our pack would still be alive." </p>
<p>The guilt that blooms from Derek is so thick and viscous that Peter almost can't breathe through it. "That's my fault," Derek whispers. "They're all dead because of me." </p>
<p>"Derek, look at me," Peter says. He waits for Derek to meet his eyes, alpha-red to beta-blue, and Peter says, enunciating every word very clearly, "If I thought you bore any guilt for the fire, I would have killed you when I killed the others."</p>
<p>Derek holds his gaze, searches Peter's eyes, and finally breaks, resting his forehead on Peter's shoulder. He doesn't cry -- Peter thinks that Derek's probably cried his heart out over it more than once -- but sorrow and grief and apology fill the air around them. Peter rests one hand on Derek's back, rubs his chin against Derek's head, and says, again, "It's not your fault." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>When Derek leans back, wipes off his face, Peter doesn't go far. He leans back against the counter, waits until Derek looks at him, then says, "Stiles gave us room so that you could talk freely. Is there anything else you want to bring up before we go pick up food and drink and head over to his father's house?" Peter doesn't bother hiding the spike of distaste at the thought of Stiles' father. Derek cocks his head, raises an eyebrow in question. "How much time have you spent in the Stilinski home?" Peter asks. </p>
<p>"Not much," Derek says. "Mostly in Stiles' room. When the nogitsune -- I walked through the house but I was focused on trying to track Stiles more than anything else. Why?" </p>
<p>"You'll understand when we get there," Peter says. "Anything else?" </p>
<p>Derek shakes his head after a moment's thought. "I don't think so," he says. "But -- the claim. Will it hurt?" </p>
<p>Peter thinks back to his own claiming, to the way it felt to have the Spark scour him from the inside out, those pine needles scrubbing him, sanctifying him, only for liquid platinum to coat everything, to encase him, in a sense, at a deep, metaphysical level. "No," Peter says. "It didn't hurt me. It felt --" and he stops, because how can Peter put into words how healed and clean and seen and adored he felt, like being cradled and washed and kissed and protected, all at the same time? "It didn't hurt," he says, again, shrugging one shoulder. He's not sure what his scent faded into, thinking of that one eternal moment, but whatever he smells like seems to have reassured Derek. </p>
<p>"Who else are you going to invite to join the pack?" Derek asks. </p>
<p>"Stiles and I wanted to talk that over with you," Peter says. At Derek's look of surprise, Peter rolls his eyes and moves, taking the dirty dishes to the sink and rinsing out the coffee pot. "You're going to be my second, Derek; you have input, too. But, if you agree -- Lydia, today. Malia. Ethan, if he wants to stay and you feel comfortable at the thought of holding a pack bond to him; I know he hurt you, so if you don't want him here, we'll tell him to leave. Possibly the Yukimuras, though kitsune traditionally aren't really pack creatures. Whittemore, if he wants to come back. Lydia will probably bargain for her friend, the hacker, the smart one --" </p>
<p>Derek grins, a brief here-and-gone flash of teeth, says, "Danny." </p>
<p>Peter nods, decides not to comment on the amusement. "-- Danny, and I'd be inclined to agree with her. It's always useful to have smart humans in the pack. Other than that? It's admittedly a small pack in comparison to Hale packs of the past but Stiles has bonds and treaties and alliances with a number of others around the country that we'll be able to draw on if we need to, and I'll reopen lines of communication with Alpha Ito that your mother let fade. We'll manage and if we decide to grow, it'll be at our pace." </p>
<p>"Not Scott?" Derek asks, soft, wary. "Or the sheriff?" </p>
<p>"No," Peter says. His wolf would never allow bonds with the sheriff, not when Peter loathes him with every fibre of his being, and Scott -- "Scott's going to be the biggest obstacle but I wouldn't be surprised if Stiles has a number of plans at his fingertips when it comes to him." </p>
<p>Derek nods, once, slow. "If Scott's going to be the biggest roadblock, then Deaton --" </p>
<p>He stops, cut off by Peter's snarl. The wolf will never forgive Alan Deaton for trying to kill its mate, no matter the instincts of a magic-user to get rid of an unignited Spark, and Peter will never forgive him for putting more faith in his precious balance than in the wards protecting the old pack house. That goes back to Stiles, too, to some degree; without a healthy and strong pack around to protect a young Spark, getting rid of such a large threat to the balance would be much, much easier. It's only testament to Stiles' depression over his mother, his clinging to Scott, and his igniting that the Spark survived. </p>
<p>"Alan Deaton," Peter practically spits. "If that man doesn't have the good sense to run, he deserves whatever Stiles allows me to do with him." </p>
<p>Derek lowers his eyes, flashes his throat, and his scent grows a tinge of acceptance.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They leave shortly after and head toward the bakery -- though The Drip House might be more properly called a half-bakery, half-coffeeshop. The place opened a few years ago while Peter was still in his coma; he's not sure he ever would've stumbled through the entrance on his own. The outside's nothing to look at and, strangely enough, there's no scent of bread or coffee leaking out from the door or the windows. It's a few blocks out of downtown, too, in an area near the community college that's filled with far too many pizza joints and college students for Peter to find enjoyable. </p>
<p>In the middle of one of their late-night research binges during the alpha pack and darach debacle, Stiles had complained that he was in need of both caffeinated and sugary forms of pick-me-ups. He'd cajoled and bribed and teased Peter out of the loft and towards the college at an hour far too late at night for anywhere apart from bars and 24-hour diners to be open. Peter had dragged his feet, sure that Stiles was exaggerating about the quality of the food and the fact that Peter would like it, but the moment Peter walked in, all he could smell was butter and the zing of strong caffeine. Stiles had greeted the barista behind the counter like he knew her then popped his head into the kitchen and called out a hello to the people working even at two in the morning, scents of yeast and flour and proofing bread emerging in billowing waves around him. He'd been unbearably smug that night; later, after the third or fourth time Stiles caught Peter either with one of the pastries or a cup of coffee from The Drip House, the smugness had given way to something more fond -- but equally as unbearable. </p>
<p>Peter has come back many times since then, with and without Stiles, and tried almost every one of their breads and pretty much everything in their pastry case. Stiles likes the mini quiches, and Lydia never turns down a croissant, and their focaccia makes the best pizza base, but Peter's favourites are the sunrise muffins, a banana-nut base filled with pecans and shredded coconut and white chocolate chips. He's spent more than one night, more than one morning, pulling the muffins apart and eating them piece-by-piece, surrounded by the smell of Stiles' satisfaction and the constant, low-thrumming purr of his wolf. </p>
<p>When he and Derek walk in, Peter heads straight for the counter. The woman standing behind it grins when she sees him, says, "Peter! We haven't seen you in a couple weeks; everything okay?" </p>
<p>"Just fine, Amanda, thank you," he says. "This is my nephew, Derek. Derek, Amanda -- supplier of some of the best coffee in Beacon Hills."</p>
<p>Derek nods, sticks behind Peter, and Amanda just waves a little at him, doesn't linger. She's always been better than most at reading body language and nonverbal clues; Peter has often suspected that she's something a little more than human. He makes a mental note to ask Stiles, then wonders if Stiles would tell him. </p>
<p>"I'm meeting Stiles," Peter says, "so two of every kind of quiche you have on hand and a pour-over for him. His friend Lydia is also joining us," he carries on, even as Amanda's writing down the order on a notepad, "so we'll also take three almond croissants and the largest vanilla latte I can get. I'll take an americano and two of the sunrise muffins, if you have any left?" </p>
<p>"I'll check, but I think so," Amanda says. She looks up at Peter, then flicks her eyes to Derek. "What about you, Derek? We have some peanut-butter swirl brownies that came out of the oven about twenty minutes ago. You look like a man who appreciates peanut butter." </p>
<p>Derek blinks, finally says, "Peanut butter's okay." </p>
<p>Amanda grins, says, "Picky customer, huh? All right. We also have some mini strawberry shortcakes or cherry danishes or peach cobbler cookies if you're more a fruit kind of guy, or salted caramel sugar cookies if you've got a sweet tooth? Or, since Peter's buying, a couple of each to try out and see what you like?" </p>
<p>"The peach cobbler cookies, please," Derek says. "And a cappuccino." </p>
<p>Amanda rings that all up, plus a couple extra brownies as a surprise for Stiles -- who loves any combination of peanut butter and chocolate and will hopefully give Peter an enthusiastic expression of gratitude for the surprise -- and Peter pays before he and Derek go to sit down to wait while she gets everything boxed and poured for them. It gives Peter the chance to lean across the table and say, "I smell nerves. Why." </p>
<p>Derek shrugs, shifts a little in his leather jacket. His eyes haven't stopped darting around the place since they walked in; while Peter expected it for at least the first few seconds -- to get the lay of the land, pinpoint where the strongest scents are coming from, take note of the few people sitting down and reading in wingback chairs or at tables typing away on computers -- it's continued on. Derek's clearly uncomfortable and Peter wants to know <i>why</i>. </p>
<p>"People here don't like me," he says, looking down at the table. "If they remember the fire, then they stare. And after -- and there was Laura, too. I got taken into the sheriff's station a couple times; they all look at me like I'm --."</p>
<p>He stops and Peter lets out an "Ah," of understanding. Most of the town was no doubt willing to accept the fire investigator's word of faulty electrical wires but there must be a draw to stare at one of the only survivors. Added to that, Peter knows the speed at which rumours flood a town like this. Derek probably hasn't felt comfortable showing his face after getting arrested. "Well," he says. "Stiles can probably take care of that, too." </p>
<p>Derek looks taken aback, asks, incredulously, "He'd use the Spark for something like that?" </p>
<p>"Probably not," Peter says, "but his notoriety? Oh, I think he'll have a <i>great</i> time parading you around Beacon Hills, crowing loudly about how you rescue kittens from trees and sit in the preserve braiding daisy chains. No doubt he has plans to introduce you to the people that <i>really</i> matter in this town now that things have settled down." </p>
<p>Derek seems puzzled, judging by the expression on his face and the confusion in his scent. "The people who really matter?"  </p>
<p>Peter grins, wicked but not cruel. "Beacon Hills might be a city but it's really a small town at heart," he says, "and like every small town, there's a not-so-secret hierarchy. Sure, the mayor and the sheriff and the chief of police all have influence, but not in any real way outside of election season. No, the people who have the power to make or break reputations are always more socially connected rather than politically connected." </p>
<p>"And Stiles knows these people," Derek half-asks, before slumping back in his seat, saying, "Of course Stiles knows these people. Stiles has dirt on half the town, I bet; is he going to bribe this 'secret hierarchy' on my behalf?" </p>
<p>"Oh, he won't need to," Peter says. "Rania and Joel have a soft spot for Stiles. They'll be predisposed to like anyone he does. But you're a good person, too. They'll see that." </p>
<p>Derek looks like he wants to argue the point but knows it won't come to anything. Instead, he just asks, "Rania and Joel?" </p>
<p>Peter nods, knows his scent is filled with amusement but doesn't care enough to hide it. "Rania Mansouri and Joel Abelman. Rania is part of a bridge club and a book club, she sits on one of the boards at the college, and she's the activities coordinator for both the library and the community centre. She's also a <i>prodigious</i> gossip. Joel's the editor-in-chief of the Beacon Hills Daily Gazette and somehow still finds time to run an all-faith mens' group out of the synagogue and sit on the city council and attend the Chamber of Commerce meetings as a non-voting member <i>and</i> drink down at the Legion every Thursday night. Two more well-connected people you will not find. Once they give you their seal of approval, you won't find an unfriendly face in this town." </p>
<p>"<i>If</i> they give me their seal of approval," Derek mutters. </p>
<p>Peter waves that away, says, "They approved of <i>me</i> and made it safe for me to walk around in this town again. If I pass muster, you will as well. And you'll have Stiles with you; he'll make sure of it." </p>
<p>Derek doesn't appear as if he believes Peter, but Peter lets it go. Derek's history with this town, his distrust, is completely understandable and -- Peter's not <i>good</i>, so he's going to enjoy watching Derek meet Rania Mansouri. She's going to take one look at Derek's eyes and fucking <i>melt</i>, Peter knows it. </p>
<p>"Peter and Derek!" Amanda calls, from the counter, where she's got two drink carriers, two boxes, and one bag filled and waiting for them. </p>
<p>The two get up, go over to the counter, where Peter eyes the extra cups, inhales and smells an extra vanilla latte, plus a caramel mocha and two cups of plain espresso shots. He gives Amanda a look and she waves him off, says, "You paid for it. Stiles called about half an hour before you showed up, added the drinks onto whatever you ordered and asked me to set aside a loaf of the tomato-basil-garlic sourdough as well. I rang it up with your order. That -- uh. Stiles said that was okay; it <i>was</i> right?" </p>
<p>"Anything Stiles wants --," Peter starts. </p>
<p>"-- Stiles gets," Amanda finishes, laughing a little as she relaxes. "Yeah, yeah, I figured. When're you gonna put a ring on that, Peter? You already spoil him. If you're married, you'd at least get the tax benefits." </p>
<p>Derek's picking up one of the drink carriers and one of the boxes, the paper bag with a loaf of bread balanced on top of the pastry box, but he pauses mid-movement and stares at Amanda. "You don't -- uh. Stiles is a minor. You do know that, right?"</p>
<p>"Yeah," Amanda says, "but Stiles hasn't ever really been a kid, not as long as I've known him. What he's gone through, no one his age is gonna be able to handle that, and -- Stiles has been coming in almost since the first day I opened. The only time I ever really see him smile, a real smile, the kind that hits the eyes? Is when he's with Peter. I wasn't comfortable with it at first, I'll admit, but I've watched them and they're the real deal, Derek. Y'know?"</p>
<p>Peter can't help the way he glows with pride, hearing all of that, and Derek rolls his eyes, says, "Stop gloating," and heads for the door. </p>
<p>"I mean it," Amanda tells Peter, quietly. "No one that matters in this town would think twice about supporting it -- you. Might be we'd even help Stiles with the paperwork. I know for a fact that Linda down at the courthouse would forge anything that needs it. She's had a copy of the sheriff's signature waiting to go for years. We always figured emancipation but marriage works, too." </p>
<p>"Not a big fan of the sheriff, Amanda?" Peter asks, curious. </p>
<p>Amanda snorts. "He does good enough for the town, I guess, or we wouldn't all keep voting him back in. But good enough for Stiles? No. Not since I've been looking. Not since a lot of people've been looking." </p>
<p>Peter nods, hums thoughtfully, and says, "If I don't see you before Thursday, tell the book club I said hi," as he leaves, following Derek out the door. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>They drive to Stiles' house; it's a quick trip, maybe seven or eight minutes, but Peter spends the ride smelling as the contemplation leaves Derek's scent, replaced by the fear-scent of dried-out, rotting aspen. He doesn't say anything, doesn't know what he might be able to say that would soothe Derek, so he simply sends waves of calm and reassurance down their pack bond, rumbles out brief noises of comfort whenever Derek's panic spikes. </p>
<p>It's enough to get them to the house, to get them to the front door, and then Stiles is there, flinging the door wide open and groaning, "Oh my freaking <i>god</i>, caffeine, gimme gimme gimme," making grabby hands at one of the two cups holding what smells like a double shot of espresso. Peter hands his drink carrier over before Stiles snatches it out of his hands, and Stiles hisses out, "Yesssssss," as heads back inside, crooning nonsensically at the coffee. It's ridiculous, just like Stiles, and even Derek's not immune to the amusement of it, snickering to himself at the sight. </p>
<p>"<i>That</i> is who you mated with," Derek mutters, following Peter inside the house. </p>
<p>"He might be marginally insane but he has a variety of redeeming qualities," Peter retorts, just as quietly, though he loads the words with as much dripping innuendo as possible. </p>
<p>Peter almost <i>feels</i> the force of Derek's eye-roll. </p>
<p>By the time they take their shoes off and get to the kitchen, Stiles is setting one of the espresso cups down, empty, his eyes closed as he licks his lips as if to catch every last drop. Peter puts down the pastry box he's carrying, leans over and rubs his nose in Stiles' hair, scenting his mate and finding contentment without needing to search for it. </p>
<p>"I'm surprised your scent isn't just pure coffee," Derek says, shifting on his feet when Stiles looks at him. Derek leaves the drink carrier, pastry box, and the paper bag with the bread loaf on the counter, steps back and tilts his head a little to show off his throat, head ducking down and looking for all the world as if he's going to take two more steps back and then start running. </p>
<p>Stiles sighs, seeing Derek's reaction, and he starts taking out the pastries from the boxes, separating them out onto plates as he asks, "Peter told you about the claim? What are -- oh, brownies, <i>hell</i> yeah; thanks, Peter -- what are your thoughts?" </p>
<p>Derek clears his throat. "I'd like to do it, if you still want to," he says. Stiles finishes fiddling with the food, grips the edge of the counter and turns his neck so he can look at Derek. "Will it -- Peter said it didn't hurt when you did it to him." </p>
<p>The look on Stiles' face, the gleam in his eyes, the overtones to his scent, are almost enough in combination to make Peter's heart break. Stiles looks so <i>sad</i>. His tone echoes that as he says, "I will do my best to never hurt you, not when I can help it." Unspoken, though not unheard, is Stiles' belief that Derek's been hurt enough in his life. </p>
<p>"What do I need to do?" Derek asks. </p>
<p>"Nothing," Stiles says. He crosses the distance between them, all of four steps even though it feels like a precipice that Peter could never hope to bridge by himself. Stiles fits his hands to Derek's cheeks and his eyes go Spark-white, the glow around him coming back and pulsing in rhythm to his heartbeat, steady but fast, like midsummer rainstorms. "Everything of mine is part of everything of me," Stiles tells him. "Peter is mine, and you are Peter's, and you are mine, and we are pack." He leans forward, then, and kisses Derek's forehead. </p>
<p>Stiles is grinning when he moves back, hands falling down to his sides, fond smile gracing the curve of his mouth. Peter watches as a shiver starts at Derek's head and goes down his body, trailing goosebumps as it moves. He can't smell anything except an overwhelming stink of ozone and eucalyptus, the reek of it drowning out both Stiles' and Derek's scents, and he can't feel anything through the pack bonds. Peter just has to stand there and wait, watch as Stiles' Spark-white eyes stay focused on Derek without blinking. </p>
<p>When the scent starts to die out, when Stiles finally blinks back the Spark from his eyes and takes a step back from Derek, Derek shakes his head, lets the wolf make a low, rumbling sound as Peter gets the impression from their pack bond of the wolf shaking off its fur, settling back down. </p>
<p>"It didn't hurt," Derek says, slowly, tone full of wonder. He opens his eyes, the wolf looking out through them, and stares at Stiles. "You're still an --," he starts, stops as he swallows. "I can't call you an idiot." </p>
<p>"But you can think it," Stiles half-asks. Derek nods. "You'll get there. It took Peter a couple days but he's been going around calling me his little monster every chance he's gotten since then. Pretty soon you'll be back to tossing me against walls and knocking my head into steering wheels." Peter snarls and Derek instantly throws his head <i>back</i>, eyes clenched closed. "For the love of -- <i>Peter</i>," Stiles says. "Calm the fuck down, okay? Derek never really hurt me and he <i>did</i> save my life a few times. I was joking." </p>
<p>Peter's growl goes subvocal. Stiles moves around Derek, goes to Peter and wraps his arms around Peter's waist. Having his mate close, safe, calms Peter even more; he turns them, enough to take Stiles out of Derek's direct line of sight, and forces the wolf to calm before he says, "No more joking about you getting hurt, Stiles. Please." </p>
<p>Stiles presses a kiss to Peter's cheek. "All right," he says, easily. Peter looks at him, raises an eyebrow at how freely Stiles agreed, and Stiles rolls his eyes. "Satomi and Solé don't like hearing about it, either," he admits. "Actually, every time I caught up with Satomi and filled her in on the shit going on in Beacon Hills, she tried convincing me to leave. Or fight back, once I ignited. Solé wasn't happy about it. Her threats were -- inventive." </p>
<p>Peter doesn't want to know what kind of threats Stiles would call <i>inventive</i>. </p>
<p>"Who's Solé?" Derek asks. </p>
<p>"My mentor," Stiles says, turning in Peter's hold to look at Derek, Stiles' hands over Peter's where they're clasped together over Stiles' stomach. "She lives down in the Valley; we've been having magic lessons since I ignited. She's, uh. Imaginative." </p>
<p>Derek's eyes flick to Peter; Peter shakes his head, not enough for Stiles to notice, he thinks, but enough for Derek to get the message to not push, to leave it alone for now. Peter will have to find a way to fill his nephew in later, when Stiles isn't around to get offended or hurt at how Peter's going to describe Soledad fucking Medina. Stiles elbows him, then, and slips out of Peter's grasp like water, grabbing two of the plates from the counter and nodding his head at the coffees. </p>
<p>"Grab those," Stiles says. "Let's sit down and talk a little before Lydia gets here." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Lydia knocks on the front door promptly at one. Stiles is waiting for her, and Peter hears as she says hello and Stiles greets her, promising that Peter's there and he picked up her coffee and croissants. Lydia makes a small huffing noise right before she comes into view, her scent evening out the slightest amount when she sees Derek as well. She takes in the crumbs on the two empty plates at the centre of the table, as well as the empty mugs of coffee, and one perfectly shaped eyebrow raises. </p>
<p>"Started without me?" she asks. "Rude." </p>
<p>"Not rude," Stiles says, following Lydia. He drops off a stack of books and papers on the kitchen counter -- his homework, probably, that Lydia promised to bring over -- and picks up one of the vanilla lattes and her plate of croissants. He sets the food and coffee down in front of Lydia and then goes back to the counter for the other drinks and the rest of the pastries.  "We were talking about other things." </p>
<p>Lydia, perched on her chair, picks up the latte and breathes in the smell of her coffee. Peter sees steam curling up in wisps; he's not sure when or how Stiles heated it back up. She takes a sip, a hum of pleased enjoyment coming out after she swallows. "Other things?" </p>
<p>Stiles gives her a half-smile. "Yeah," he says. "Other things. We'll fill you in later, depending on how this goes." </p>
<p>He gives Derek the caramel mocha, Peter the other vanilla latte, and Stiles takes the espresso for himself, leaving the plate in the middle of the table. Stiles sits down, then, collapsing into the chair and slouching down, legs spread and hands twisted in his lap, and asks Lydia, "Where do you want me to start?" </p>
<p>Lydia picks an almond slice off the top of one of the croissants as she studies Stiles, her eyes darting to Peter and Derek once before going back to Stiles. "Where you went," she eventually says, after a moment spent thinking and nibbling on the almond slice. "You said last night that you'd just driven back into town. And then why you left and went where you did, and then how you're better, and then why Peter's involved -- unless that comes up in one of your earlier answers," she adds. </p>
<p>"Peter and I went to New Orleans," Stiles says. "We went because I knew what was making me sick and how to get better." </p>
<p>"And the answer to that was in New Orleans?" Lydia asks. "What does New Orleans have that you can't find anywhere else within a twelve-hour drive of Beacon Hills?" </p>
<p>Stiles winces. "A particular alpha that needed killing," he says. </p>
<p>Lydia's eyes immediately go to Peter; he flashes alpha-red eyes at her and lets her sit there, study them, as her heart rate speeds up and then, almost immediately, slows down again. "Deucalion," she guesses. Stiles nods. "Well. I can't say I'm glad Peter's the one who reaps the benefits from that, but I'm more relieved that Deucalion's out of the picture for good. Letting him go never sat right with me." She looks back at Stiles, says, "So how did that --" and stops, starts shaking her head. "Tell me he didn't bite you." </p>
<p>Stiles flushes; Peter resists the urge to coo and lean over, breathe in the scent of his mate thinking about just how and when and why Peter bit him, fights back the desire to lick over the imprint of his teeth in Stiles' arm and back, swallows down the need to bite more, leave his mark all over Stiles' skin so no one could ever doubt how much Peter <i>wants</i> his mate. </p>
<p>Peter gets kicked under the table, sees Derek glaring at him and wrinkling his nose. </p>
<p>"I'm not a wolf," Stiles says. He chews on his bottom lip for a moment before he takes a sip of espresso. Once he's swallowed, licked his lips, he says, "I told you about Peter, before, when he was an alpha. When he offered me the bite." </p>
<p>"In a parking garage," Lydia scoffs, "while you were under severe mental duress. Yes, you told me." </p>
<p>Stiles glances at Derek, glances at Peter, looks back at Lydia. "I never told you he wanted to bite my wrist. Right wrist." </p>
<p>Lydia blinks. "That's a mating bite," she says. "That's not a -- Stiles, that's -- did you know that's what he was offering?" </p>
<p>"Yeah," Stiles says, softly, looking down at the table. He taps his fingers against the coffee cup, says, again, "Yeah, I did."</p>
<p>"Why didn't you accept then?" Derek asks, leaning forward a little. Peter realises, then, that Derek never knew that either -- whether Peter offered to bite Stiles or the location Peter wanted to bite, he's not sure, but -- he thought Stiles would've told Derek. Of course, unbeknownst to them all, Stiles had Alpha Ito to talk with and, later, a mentor and shifter-friends and fellow magic-users all around the country. No doubt they advised Stiles to keep his counsel until the situation in Beacon Hills stabilised. </p>
<p>Stiles shrugs one shoulder. "I knew he was going to die," he says. He looks at Peter, then, and smells like lilypad lakes of apologies and love and loss. "You didn't have a plan beyond getting revenge. I think on some level you wanted to die once you'd gotten vengeance. You didn't act as though you had anything to live for and -- I could've said yes, tried to anchor you, tried to give you a reason, but -- you were insane, y'know, Peter. I didn't want to bind myself to something mad, not when my head's already fucked up."</p>
<p>Peter reaches out, then, and takes Stiles' hand in his, lets their fingers twine together, rubs his thumb back and forth over Stiles' skin. "You did the right thing, saying no," Peter reassures him. He looks at Derek, tells his nephew, "You were right to kill me."</p>
<p>"But you accepted the bite this time when he asked," Lydia says after a moment, pulling Peter back to the present, banishing away the memory of hearing Stiles' heart skip as he refused the offer of Peter's bite, of feeling Kate's heart stop under his hands, of the agony of Derek's claws ripping apart his throat, the burn of fire all around him, the pull of healing unable to keep up with the way his skin was melting, the chemical stench fading under the wave of blood and death that pulled him under for weeks. </p>
<p>Stiles sets his arm on the table, turns it to show off the imprint of Peter's teeth in his forearm, scarred over and healed. "Yeah," he says. The smile in his voice echoes the one on his face, silly and pleased and fond. "Though he didn't ask so much as I demanded. But -- yeah. We went to New Orleans and Peter killed Deucalion and then we mated." </p>
<p>"And that healed you," Lydia says. She sounds and looks skeptical. "Getting fucked by an alpha werewolf who once tried to kill us all made you <i>better</i>." </p>
<p>Peter and Derek both growl at Lydia's tone. Derek looks startled at the noise he makes, stopping almost instantly, but Peter pins narrowed eyes on the girl and wishes that she wasn't so important to Stiles. She's intelligent enough to be a threat and, once she's trained, she's going to be powerful enough to be a major thorn in their sides if she keeps poking at them. She's been useful in the past and he doesn't mind adding her to their pack, but he's going to kill her if she continues to disrespect the sacred nature of a wolf mating. </p>
<p>Stiles lets go of Peter's hand, punches him softly, then shifts his chair so he's completely focused on Lydia. Peter would hate that except that he can feel reassurance coming down the bond between them, can scent the wave of love and amusement billowing out from Stiles. </p>
<p>"When the nogitsune and I split, we fucked up the bodies," Stiles tells Lydia, leaning in her direction, elbows on his knees. "I was left with a purely magical construct and -- me getting sick was that construct starting to fail. I needed bonds to anchor me and I only wanted them with Peter. Once he became alpha, I joined his pack, then became his emissary and mate. The triple bond -- it's enough to keep me here, keep me alive. So yeah, getting fucked by an alpha werewolf that once tried to kill us all made me better."</p>
<p>"Emissary," Lydia says. "You have magic? Enough magic to be Peter's emissary the way that Doctor Deaton is Scott's? Have you always known you could do that or was this something new? Something that --," her voice lowers, goes as soft as Peter's ever heard Lydia speak, "-- the nogitsune left? Or -- or gave you?" </p>
<p>Stiles makes a face, says, "No. Not -- not exactly. Uh. I mean, yes, I have enough magic to be Peter's emissary, but I didn't get it from the nogitsune. I've -- sort of always had it. I didn't have -- I didn't know I had it, not until recently. After this whole thing started, y'know, Scott and wolves and the supernatural." He chokes out a laugh, says, "The last couple years have been fucking <i>insane</i>.  But the potential was always inside me. It just needed to be -- unlocked." </p>
<p>Lydia's eyes go over Stiles' face, searching. She doesn't seem to find what she's looking for, smells upset, though Peter's not sure why. "You didn't tell me," she whispers. "Didn't you trust me? Didn't you --" </p>
<p>"It's not like that," Stiles says, cutting her off very firmly. "I swear, it's not because of that. It's because of me. What I am." </p>
<p>"He doesn't like it," Peter says. Lydia looks at him, then turns her gaze back to Stiles expectantly, like she's waiting for Stiles to argue, to disagree. Stiles doesn't. "Stiles is -- because of what he is, he's important. To more than just Beacon Hills. When people find out, they react -- they react in ways that Stiles finds distasteful." He considers something, asks, "How much studying have you done on magic users? Levels of skill, classifications, specialties, that sort of thing?" </p>
<p>Lydia holds Stiles' gaze a moment longer, then looks at Peter. She frowns, her scent going cold in contemplation. "Stiles has been passing me books ever since Jackson left. Bestiaries, grimoires, old journals; after Al -- after the nogitsune, faerie tales and legends and diaries. I thought it was because of what I am, but are you saying --." She looks back at Stiles, then, and asks, "What you are, it was hidden in there? Stiles, you could have just <i>told</i> me." </p>
<p>Stiles tilts his head back and forth, says, "Yeah," slowly. "I could have. But -- Peter's not wrong. What I am is -- big. And I never thought it was the right time. It's only the right time now because of the nogitsune. Otherwise, I think I would've waited." He looks down, left knee bouncing up and down, admits, "Apart from Peter, I don't think I would've told anyone. If he stayed a beta, I wouldn't have needed to tell anyone else. But Peter's an alpha now and I'm his mate and I don't want to keep secrets from his -- <i>our</i> -- pack. And you're my friend," he adds, looking back up at Lydia. "I -- we want you. As pack. But even if you don't want to, you deserve to know. You're special and you deserve to know." </p>
<p>Lydia inhales deep, exhales slow. "You were never in love with me, were you," she says. </p>
<p>"No," Stiles says, with a brutal kind of finality. "But I do love you." </p>
<p>She reaches, then, takes one of Stiles' hands in hers. She looks down, Peter can see her tracing over the bumps of Stiles' knuckles, and when she looks back up, she smells of nothing but pure determination. "Tell me what you are." </p>
<p>A blinding luminescence bursts out of Stiles, fades into little starbursts that settle around him in the glow Peter loves, though this time with little fizzing explosions of light that burn at the ends of every hair on his body, even his eyelashes. Peter can't tell if Stiles' eyes have gone Spark-white, not at this angle, but it feels like it, smells like it, as Stiles' full scent spreads out around them and fills the kitchen, weighting the air down with the promise of impossible things, earth-shattering things. </p>
<p>Derek, across from Stiles, has his eyes narrowed against the glare when Peter glances at him, but he's still in his chair. Peter lifts an eyebrow in silent question, unwilling to interrupt Stiles and Lydia, but Derek nods and, in the midst of Stiles' scent, Peter smells the relief emanating out from his nephew.</p>
<p>The claim worked, then, and quickly. Good. </p>
<p>"I'm a Spark," Stiles says. </p>
<p>Lydia stares. Her eyes are wide, her lips parted. She lets go of Stiles' hand only to lift both of her own, tentatively reaching out for Stiles. He doesn't retreat, only moves a little closer, and she traces the curve of his cheek, runs her fingers through his hair, presses her thumb over a couple of the moles on his face, slides fingertips over his forehead. </p>
<p>She smells of nothing but <i>awe</i>, a creeping sense of familiarity at the edges of her scent, the parts of her that smell of bone and yew and cold metal hitting against those parts of Stiles' and curling in close. </p>
<p>"You're <i>beautiful</i>," she breathes. </p>
<p>Peter feels Stiles flinch, doesn't see it but can <i>feel</i> it. Stiles starts pulling his light back in, pulling his scent back in, and it's the work of seconds before Stiles is sitting there, looking like a baseline normal human even when everyone else there knows, beyond a shadow of doubt, that Stiles is anything but. </p>
<p>"It's the magic," Stiles says. "It's -- overwhelming. It can be, I mean, especially the first time." </p>
<p>"Every time," Peter says, gentle in his disagreement. "It never gets less awe-inspiring. Claims and bonds aside, it's never anything but amazing." </p>
<p>Stiles tilts his head in Peter's direction but doesn't look at him. "You don't have to make any decisions about the pack right now," he tells Lydia. "You can think it over, take all the time you need. I don't -- if you could keep, uh, <i>me</i> to yourself, I'd appreciate it, but I'll -- if you have questions --." </p>
<p>Stiles trails off, hunches in on himself. Lydia studies Stiles, finally sighs and grabs his hand again. "I have so many questions," she says, "and you're going to answer all of them that you feel comfortable answering. But -- Peter's right, isn't he. You hate what you are." </p>
<p>"It hasn't -- my life would be different if I was normal. Better, I think, in some ways, but definitely different," Stiles says. "Hate is a strong word. But it's not entirely incorrect." </p>
<p>"We'll change your mind," Lydia swears. "Me and Derek and Peter, we'll make you change your mind." </p>
<p>Peter raises an eyebrow. "What does that mean, exactly, Lydia?" </p>
<p>Lydia's gaze swings to him, settles for a moment before she looks to Derek, studies him. One more glance at Stiles, then her eyes fix on Peter. "I love Scott," she tells Peter, "but he's not a good option for alpha. Maybe one day he'll grow up but with Beacon Hills the way it is, one disaster after another, we need an alpha we can count on <i>now</i>. I don't trust you, not entirely, but I think you love Stiles and he's my -- he's my best friend." Stiles' head shoots up and Peter bites back the smile at the way Stiles' scent floods over with shock at Lydia's pronouncement. "You're capable and lethal and pragmatic, and once you get your mind set on something, you're not going to change it. If that something is our survival, I'd be a fool to turn that away -- and I'm not a fool. I'll join your pack now and maybe someday I'll learn to trust you."  </p>
<p>"Do you mean it?" Stiles asks. </p>
<p>Lydia looks at Stiles, smiles, says, "I'm on your side, and you're on his side, so -- yeah. I mean it." </p>
<p>Peter gets up, goes around the table, running a hand across Derek's shoulders as he does. He drops to one knee next to Lydia, takes her left hand, and lets the beta shift come over him. His eyes go red, claws grow, fangs drop, and through it all, Lydia holds his eyes and doesn't flinch away. There's a spike of fear in her scent -- no doubt the look of him like this is triggering her memories of that night on the lacrosse pitch and the pain he left her with -- but with it comes ice and cold and <i>death</i>, her own promise of magic. Her green eyes take on the slightest tinge of silver around the edges of her irises, the black of her pupil going as dark as the empty space between stars, and her red hair grows the faint texture of feathers.</p>
<p>Derek inhales sharply and Stiles starts to laugh in delight as Peter fits his fangs to Lydia's skin and presses hard enough to indent the flesh, not hard enough to pierce through and draw blood. The bond between them <i>screams</i> into being, thin and taut like thrumming garotte wire, blood and death singing out from the cord, like ancient legacies of pain and the promise of carrion-cleaned bone, the taunt of predators in shadows, the reek of ash and fur and violence covering it all for two heartbeats, then three, then four, before disappearing. </p>
<p>Peter sits back on his heels, closes his eyes and breathes hard as his bond to Lydia settles inside of him, faster than Derek's last night but much more alien, a foreign feel that has him on edge until his wolf slowly calms, fur ruffling, and crouches down, silent and watchful. </p>
<p>When Peter opens his eyes again, he sees Lydia with one hand pressed to her chest, the other holding a chunk of hair and studying the hint of down feathers coming out of a couple strands. </p>
<p>"The lineage that produces a banshee," Stiles says, slowly and carefully, "can also produce, very rarely, and if there's enough blood and magic involved in the creation, a Morrigan." </p>
<p>There's a noise from Derek, high and surprised, and Derek's scent sends out spirals of awe that match the delight zinging off of Stiles's scent. </p>
<p>"My hair's not going to turn black, is it?" Lydia asks. "Or silver?" </p>
<p>Stiles chuckles, says, "No," even as the changes that had come over Lydia start to fade away. "Your eyes will eventually start to go silver when you tap into your power, and your hair <i>will</i> turn into feathers, but they'll still be strawberry-blonde." </p>
<p>Lydia lets out a deep breath, lets her hair fall back down, as she asks another question. "Did you know?" </p>
<p>"That you weren't exactly a banshee? Yes," Stiles says. "That you'd come into it this soon? No. I thought we had time." Lydia opens her mouth; Stiles says, before she can ask, "Yes. I would've told you, I <i>swear</i>. I honestly didn't think that forming a pack bond to Peter would be enough to set it off. But Lydia," he says, gently, "this is always what you were supposed to be. Today, next week, three years from now, this is always what was going to happen. The moment Peter bit you, the day you were born in Beacon Hills -- this is -- it's you." </p>
<p>"You always called me goddess," Lydia says, giving Stiles a shaky smile. "I guess -- you weren't lying. Sort of. Is it --," and she trails off, touches her hair again and then reaches, presses at her eyelids. </p>
<p>Stiles reaches over, puts his hand on Lydia's knee. "Gorgeous," he promises. Lydia searches his eyes, must find something there, because her smile firms and her shoulders straighten. Stiles grins, seeing it, and says, "I have a scroll upstairs I've been saving for you. Hold on a sec and I'll go grab it." </p>
<p>It sounds as though Stiles takes the stairs two at a time, but as soon as he's out of sight, Lydia turns to Peter and asks, point-blank, "Did <i>you</i> know?" </p>
<p>"Yes," Peter says. "Stiles told me on our drive back from New Orleans. Though all he said was that you were a Morrigan, and you'd be willing to join our pack. There was no timeline suggested to either of those things." </p>
<p>"No," Lydia says, thoughtfully. "I believe him on that; he wasn't lying about not expecting it, and he told me the truth about him planning on telling me -- he wouldn't have the scroll otherwise. But how much did you knowing factor into <i>your</i> plans?" </p>
<p>Peter shakes his head, says, "Not at all." Lydia blinks at him and Derek snorts, clearly not believing him, but Peter simply asks, "What use could I have for a Morrigan when I've already got a Spark?" </p>
<p>That takes the wind out of them. Peter's right, after all. Morrigans are rare, and powerful, and valuable to have as allies, much less as <i>pack</i>, but they're nothing compared to a Spark. No one and nothing compares to a Spark. </p>
<p>Stiles comes clattering back down the steps, then, brandishing an actual scroll in his hands. Lydia looks at the scroll, looks at Stiles, looks back at the scroll, and Stiles says, "Yeah, well," as if that's any kind of answer. </p>
<p>Lydia accepts the non-answer, though, just like she takes the scroll when Stiles offers it to her. There's a little punch in the air when she holds it, something that smells of untouched snow and glitters with moon-glow; when it settles, Lydia's eyes are wide, her lips parted. </p>
<p>"I felt that," she says. "It -- what <i>was</i> that?" </p>
<p>"It recognised you," Stiles says. Lydia unwinds the scroll just a little, and Stiles says, "You should be able to read that now. It's not -- before, you couldn't, because you have to be --."</p>
<p>"I have to be fae," Lydia breathes out, her eyes moving as if she's reading the first few words, "instead of just gifted. Oh. <i>Stiles</i>, I --." </p>
<p>She stops, winds the scroll back up and holds it tight, squeezing so much that her knuckles go white around it. Peter's fascinated to see that the paper -- or whatever the scroll's made out of it -- doesn't so much as wrinkle. </p>
<p>Stiles drops to one knee in front of her, lifts her chin until she's meeting his eyes. "You have a two week break between the end of school and the beginning of summer classes at the college. There's a friend I'd like you to meet and two weeks might be just enough time. But you should consider cancelling your enrollment, y'know. Just in case." </p>
<p>"It'd be Mab," Lydia guesses, much faster than Peter would've been able to put the clues together if he didn't already know about Stiles' connections. And really, in the back of his mind he'd been wondering why Stiles went to the Winterlands instead of the Summerlands; his own Spark is much more fire and light than air and darkness. It makes sense now, though. "To -- challenge me?" </p>
<p>"That would be up to you," Stiles says. "Though there are other options. Everything's on the scroll. Once you've digested that, I have other books, other connections. But remember: you're pack to an alpha who's tamed over a dozen conflicting alpha sparks, and I'm -- what I am. So no matter what you decide, you have a lot of power at your disposal and very influential people to support you." </p>
<p>Lydia nods a few times though she still looks lost. </p>
<p>"Do you have any books for me?" Derek asks, in the silence. Peter glances over, sees Derek's eyes -- blue, now, and shining with something that looks an awful lot like the awakening need to <i>possess</i> -- fixed on Lydia, though he's clearly asking Stiles. "Peter might, but if you've been preparing for this, you have to have more than just the scroll. Since I can't read that, there has to be something else." </p>
<p>Stiles looks at Lydia, ducks his head a little to ask her some unspoken question. Lydia swallows, looks up from Stiles to pin her eyes on Derek, and the bond Peter has to Lydia goes strangely taut, thrumming with the echo of distant shrieking. </p>
<p>She nods, just once, a sharp movement that echoes the jut of her chin. </p>
<p>Stiles grins, pats Lydia's knee, stands up. "Gimme a minute," he says, and tilts his head at Peter. </p>
<p>This time, when Stiles goes up to his bedroom, Peter goes with him. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Stiles waits until they close the door to his bedroom before he turns to Peter and asks, "Was I imagining that?" </p>
<p>"Only if I was," Peter says. "They could both do worse."</p>
<p>"Yeah," Stiles says, slowly, "but what about Jackson?" </p>
<p>Peter wasn't around for much of the Whittemore brat's rampage as kanima, but he was there to shove his claws into the boy at the same time Derek did, watched as Lydia brought him back, turned him wolf, clung to him with as much relief and dizzying love as he clung to her. Most of what he remembers from that involves Stiles: the metallic tang of blood leeching off Stiles and into the air; the way he held himself; the way he looked; the utter devastation in his scent as he watched Lydia sob over Whittemore's body. Peter was almost blinded with jealousy, then; he doesn't know why, exactly, Stiles felt that way and the memory of it makes one side of his lip curl up even now. </p>
<p>Peter picks Stiles up and sets him on the corner of Stiles' desk, pushes Stiles' legs apart to stand between them. </p>
<p>"Not that I don't --" Stiles says, getting cut off as Peter kisses him, harsh and biting, all fangs and pressure and <i>rage</i>. Stiles makes a noise in the back of his throat, moves to wrap his arms around Peter and shove his hands in the back pockets of Peter's jeans. He gives as good as Peter's giving, licks up the blood spilling out of their mouths, and when Peter finally reels back, eyes red and wolf snarling, Stiles bares his teeth and leans, buries his teeth in Peter's neck and <i>pulls</i>. </p>
<p>The hurt of it settles Peter, the anger punching out of him along with pain as Stiles rips a layer of skin off. Stiles spits it out onto the floor, leans back and searches Peter's face for an explanation, his eyes Spark-white, his heart racing fast enough that the glow around him pulses almost too fast to keep up with. </p>
<p>"What was that for," Stiles says, using one arm to wipe off his mouth. Peter whines, a high, whimpering sort of noise that comes straight from his wolf, and he leans, carefully licks up the mess around Stiles' mouth. "Peter," Stiles breathes, once Peter's done. "Hey." He reaches, puts one hand on Peter's cheek, says, "Talk to me, wolf. What was that all about?" </p>
<p>"When you brought Lydia to the warehouse, to save Whittemore," Peter says. He can't meet Stiles' eyes, embarrassed by his reaction to a <i>memory</i>, but his hands are on Stiles' arm, fingers tracing obsessively over the mating bite scar. </p>
<p>Stiles says, "Ah, right. You want to know why I was so upset. I -- you know about that night, right? Everything that happened?" </p>
<p>Peter tilts his head to one side, frowning. "You disappeared from the lacrosse pitch after the game," he says, slowly. "You brought Lydia to anchor Whittemore -- I say 'brought' but I mean 'crashed through a wall.' No more of that, Stiles," and Stiles makes a noise of agreement. "Other than that -- there was a question about where you were between those two events but McCall didn't know and Derek never got an answer. You avoided answering me, too." </p>
<p>"Yeah," Stiles says. He grimaces, looks down at where Peter's got Stiles' hands in his, gripping tight. "You aren't going to like it." </p>
<p>"There's a great deal of your history that I don't particularly care for," Peter says. "One more episode won't hurt, except I might have to add more people to the list of those to whom I need to pay a visit?" </p>
<p>A tight smile crosses Stiles' lips. "Gerard Argent's already on your list," he says. </p>
<p>Peter's heart skips a beat and his blood runs cold. Those <i>fucking</i> Argents. If Chris wasn't gone, if Allison and Victoria and Kate weren't already dead, Peter would happily murder a swathe through the Argent family. "Tell me," Peter says, implores. </p>
<p>"Argent's minions took me off the lacrosse pitch when the lights went out," Stiles says. "Allison hunted down Erica and Boyd for him; they weren't talking and Gerard thought it was because of the bonds they had to Derek." </p>
<p>"So they took a human, since you had no bonds that might prevent you from speaking or give you enough loyalty to suffer," Peter guesses. He remembers what Stiles looked like, how he moved, the way the scents of fear and pain and betrayal oozed out of him. All of that, mixed with what Peter knows of Gerard Argent, combine to form a very vivid picture of what happened to Stiles in that house. "Stiles, you were -- you'd <i>ignited</i>. You could've -- why didn't you just -- I don't -- why go through that?" </p>
<p>Stiles exhales, a little huff through his nose. "I didn't need the Spark to survive," he says. "I used it to heal a little faster than I normally would, but -- if I'd unleashed the Spark then, can you imagine what the Argents would've done with that information? Even if I killed Gerard and all of his loyal underlings, Allison and Chris would've known, and they still answered to the matriarch. Erica and Boyd would've known, which meant Derek would've learned about it, and -- I mean, yeah, people around the country know about me, but if I'd gone supernova in the basement of a hunter stronghold? <i>Everyone</i> would know. Shifters and magic users would've gone to war against the Argents, other hunter families would've gotten involved; there's no end to the devastation that could've caused and -- I wasn't ready for that. And I could handle it. I <i>did</i> handle it. But then I got out, my dad had been freaking out, <i>Lydia</i> freaked out, things were nuts and I couldn't reach anyone, and then we had to go save <i>Jackson</i>." </p>
<p>"You'd reached your breaking point by then," Peter guesses. </p>
<p>"And I've never particularly cared for Jackson, so to see Lydia go to pieces over him --," Stiles says, shrugs one shoulder. "I thought -- when she came to my house, I thought she felt the connection between us, Spark and Morrigan. It felt like she was throwing that away, and then I realised that she wasn't ignoring it, she just had never felt it at all and I --." Stiles sighs, says, "I just -- it hurt. It all hurt. Argent, Lydia, what Scott did to Derek -- it all hurt."</p>
<p>Peter's heart aches. "And I was there and I did nothing," he says. "I'd come back and hadn't taken the time to see you, hadn't saved you from the hunters, didn't say a word when you got to the warehouse and pretty much saved all our lives by bringing Lydia with you." </p>
<p>Stiles chuffs out a little laugh, says, "Honestly? I think if you'd so much as blinked twice in my direction, I would've lost it. Don't blame yourself for that, okay? There are other people who deserve the blame for that whole shitshow, not you." </p>
<p>Gerard Argent is going to die under Peter's claws and he's going to die <i>screaming</i>. "I'll bring you his head," Peter murmurs, forehead pressed against Stiles'. "I'll rip his heart out of his chest and bring it to you and lay it at your feet; I'll cut off his hands and his feet and I'll make necklaces out of the bones for you. I'll claim --" </p>
<p>"No," Stiles says, cutting Peter off. "Don't claim blood rite." Peter feels stung, but then he meets Stiles' eyes, sees the hard steel of a Spark's implacable resolve. "He doesn't deserve that. He's not a good enough sacrifice for that." Peter breathes, tries to settle the wolf, finds himself failing miserably; it's hard to convince the wolf to calm when Peter wants to unleash it. "Deep breath," Stiles tells him. "We have time. And Gerard isn't the priority right now." </p>
<p>"I know," Peter says, grumbling. They have to settle their pack, renew their claim on the land, find a way to calm the nemeton, deal with others -- kitsune, shifter, druid, sheriff. "I'm still going to bring you his heart one day." </p>
<p>Stiles laughs. "We'll hunt him together," he says. "As soon as this is settled, we'll hunt him down and make him pay. I owe you a fuck on someone's lifeblood, after all." Peter growls, which just makes Stiles laugh more. "Now, come on; Lydia and Derek, what's the story there?"</p>
<p>Peter steps back, moves the desk chair so he can sit in it and still be close enough to Stiles to put his hands on Stiles' thighs. Alphas rarely enjoy having someone else above them, especially if they're pack, but Peter's wolf doesn't balk since Stiles is their mate, just takes comfort in the sensation of touch. "They might have had time to get closer when you were possessed," Peter says. "After Allison died, too; Lydia was worried about you and we already decided that she went to Derek when we were gone, it's not a stretch to think she went to him before, when you were still here but she didn't want to upset you. Who else would she talk to? Malia's too feral, McCall's in mourning, Whittemore's gone and Allison's dead. That doesn't leave many people."</p>
<p>"But Lydia pulled Jackson back," Stiles says. "Do you -- their relationship could be toxic at times but I think they honestly love each other." </p>
<p>"She's probably his anchor," Peter says. "Or was at that time, at least. I don't know if they've been in touch since he left but a lot's happened here and Lydia's also come into her powers as a Morrigan. It's not surprising that she'd get closer to someone here, who's experienced the same events, who's willing and able to meet Lydia on her own merits." </p>
<p>Stiles purses his lips but eventually nods. "Are you okay with it? If it becomes an it? Or -- if they become an it, I mean." </p>
<p>Peter considers that carefully, thinks about this strange, brittle creature his nephew has become, worn down by tragedy after tragedy, haunted by death and the burnt-fire ash of a legacy he was used to destroy. He thinks about Lydia, the way her eyes started to turn silver, the feel of her pack bond, the honest and easy affection she indulges in when she's around people she trusts and uses high heels and lipstick as armour around those she does not, her ferocity and Derek's instincts, the way Stiles cares about both of them and Peter wants to protect them. </p>
<p>"I am," Peter decides. "Are you?" </p>
<p>Stiles grins. "Yeah," he says. "Just promise me we won't do any double dates, okay?" Peter frowns, shakes his head because he doesn't know why <i>that</i> has Stiles stinking of amused horror. "We'd scare them off and they'd never let us hear the end of it."</p>
<p>Peter snorts. Stiles is not wrong.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Peter's eventually calm enough to let Stiles go, but Stiles picks out two books from a suitcase under his bed quickly and then shoves them under one arm so he can hold Peter's hand. They walk back downstairs like that, hand-in-hand, Stiles tugging Peter along, and as soon as they turn into the kitchen, Lydia stands up, Derek immediately doing the same. </p>
<p>Peter's not sure where the sudden flicker of amusement in Stiles' scent comes from, but he understands when Stiles says, "You're just dying to read that, aren't you," to Lydia. </p>
<p>She makes a face as she picks up her purse, says, "Of course I am. You two took long enough; I was just about to send Derek up to see if everything was all right." </p>
<p>"You smell like blood," Derek says. "Both of you. <i>Is</i> everything all right?" </p>
<p>"My mate has sharp teeth," Peter says, as Lydia's expression turns half-fascinated, half-horrified, and Derek's goes contemplative, "and a penchant for digging them into me. Apologies for taking so long." </p>
<p>Stiles offers the books to Derek. "You can give them to Lydia when you're done with them and come back to me for more," he tells Derek. "I thought it would be best to start specific and then build into the generalisations, so these are focused on banshees and Morrigans and the Shadowlands, not the fae in general." He looks at Lydia, then, and tells her, "If you have questions and I don't know the answers, I'll find out for you." </p>
<p>Lydia purses her lips, then takes the six or seven steps to go to Stiles, wrap him in a hug so tight that their scents start to intertwine as well, the way Stiles and Béa's had. It happens quicker, though, and goes deeper, and Peter doesn't know if that's familiarity or trust or friendship or simply the way fae and Sparks are, together. He'll ask, he thinks, someday. </p>
<p>"Thank you," Lydia murmurs. "I was so worried, and then you weren't <i>here</i>, but once we knew Peter was gone we knew you'd be okay, but we were so scared. Don't ever do this to me again, okay? Please, Stiles. Please don't." </p>
<p>"Never again," Stiles swears. </p>
<p>Lydia sniffs, mutters something into Stiles' ear, low enough that Peter can't make out the words, though Stiles starts to laugh and Lydia disentangles herself as Stiles nods in agreement to whatever she said and Derek comes to stand next to Lydia. </p>
<p>She looks at Peter, then, narrows her eyes. "I'm trusting him with you, alpha." </p>
<p>"And he's trusting me with you," Peter points out. "So there's incentive for me to behave on both sides." </p>
<p>"The day you behave we'll know something's drastically wrong in Beacon Hills," Derek says. </p>
<p>Stiles laughs, takes the opportunity to wriggle into Peter's hold, only stopping when Peter's got one arm curled around Stiles' waist, the two of them pressed tight together. "Good point," Stiles says. Peter mock-snarls, tickles his fingers along Stiles' hip, and Stiles shrieks as Peter finds his weak spot. </p>
<p>"Oh, for --," Derek says, rolling his eyes. </p>
<p>"Come on," Lydia tells him. "I don't know where you want me to take you, but even I can tell that anywhere is better than here." </p>
<p>With all of her queen-bee attitude firmly in place, with her chin held high and her nose pointed up, Lydia flounces out of the house. </p>
<p>Derek, with one deep, long-suffering sigh, follows her.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content warning: there are mentions of a character possibly having had suicidal thoughts in the past. Nothing explicit is discussed, but please do not read if this might upset you. You can do a ctrl-F to search for 'parks' to skip the first half of the chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peter reluctantly leaves Stiles to focus on his homework, feels the wolf's displeasure at leaving their mate in a space they don't deem entirely safe and agrees with it but consoles it -- and himself -- with the knowledge that there aren't any current threats in Beacon Hills and the assurance that Stiles can take care of himself. Peter has errands to run and phone calls to make; he can do that while Stiles goes through all the schoolwork he missed during their road trip to New Orleans. Peter knows, too, that if he doesn't leave, there's no chance that Stiles will get his work done, not with this incessant craving Peter feels for his mate and the way their bond floods over with pomegranate seeds of need and want and desire every time Stiles looks at Peter. </p>
<p>Peter heads for the grocery store, stocks up on the essentials but also a fair amount of food that he knows Stiles and Derek like to snack on: dark chocolate and herbal teas and salt-and-vinegar pistachios. He also tosses a large container of mozzarella pearls and a package of fresh tortellini into his cart and splurges for deli-sliced soppressata, pepperoni, and prosciutto, picking up some of the pita chips that he's seen Lydia snacking on before while he's wandering around the deli section. </p>
<p>It's partially an alpha thing, the need to provide and to provide <i>well</i>, but Peter's seen first-hand how Stiles forgets to eat sometimes when he's stressed and how Derek uses food as a punishment, and he wouldn't be surprised if Lydia has some kind of disordered relationship with food as well, like so many people -- but especially women -- do in an age filled with such high-maintenance beauty standards. If the one positive thing he can do for his pack is feed them, he will, and he'll do it without complaint and to the best of his ability. </p>
<p>Peter makes one concession to his crusade against highly-processed food and adds six pints of various Ben and Jerry's ice cream to his cart before he heads to the checkout. Everyone loves ice cream, after all. </p>
<p>With the grocery shopping done, Peter heads back to the townhouse. He puts all the groceries away, strips the bed and starts a load of laundry, cleans up the dishes from breakfast, and while the washing machine's spinning away and the dishwasher's going, Peter sits down at the counter with notebook and pen. Stiles had added a handful of phone numbers to Peter's contact list and Peter scrolls down to the phone number for Satomi Ito. He takes a deep breath before pushing the little phone icon and cradles his phone against his shoulder, uncapping the pen lid. </p>
<p>"<i>Ito household</i>." </p>
<p>"Good afternoon," Peter says. "I was wondering if --" </p>
<p>The voice on the other end of the line cuts him off, asks, "<i>Peter? Peter Hale? Is that you</i>?" </p>
<p>Peter closes his eyes. He and Alpha Ito were never all that close, especially after Talia ascended to lead the pack and started cutting most of their more neutral and reclusive allies out of her plans. Peter doesn't think it was done maliciously but he always felt it was ridiculous to turn their backs on an ally, especially one whose territory bordered their own, and he did his best to maintain sporadic communication with a pair of betas in Alpha Ito's pack. Hearing the alpha's voice, though, now -- he's not sure how to describe how it feels, nor how it feels to know that she still recognises <i>his</i> voice after all these years.  </p>
<p>"It is," he says. "Forgive me for calling out of the blue, Alpha Ito, but -- I wanted to reopen lines of communication between your pack and my own." </p>
<p>"<i>No need to apologise</i>," Alpha Ito says. "<i>And no need to call me Alpha Ito. I gave you permission once to address me by my given name and I have not been given reason to rescind that. Shall I assume that something's happened in Beacon Hills to explain why you're calling me now</i>?" There's a pause, and then Satomi asks, "<i>Is he all right</i>?" </p>
<p>Peter smiles. Hearing how tense and worried Satomi is at the mere thought of something happening to Stiles settles him, settles his wolf. It's always good to have allies but it's even better to have allies that will worry about Stiles as much as Peter does. </p>
<p>"He's well," Peter says. "I left him doing a pile of homework at his father's kitchen table." Peter pauses, jots down a note, taps the pen against the notebook. "I don't know how much he's told you in the past week but I'm an alpha again and I'm going to reclaim Beacon Hills as Hale territory. Stiles has given me the honour of accepting my mating bite and we currently have two others in the pack: my nephew, Derek, has agreed to join us, and so has a friend of Stiles' named Lydia Martin." </p>
<p>"<i>Stiles has spoken highly of both of them</i>," Satomi says, "<i>and of you. Congratulations on your bonding and your ascension. It's far past time we had a competent Hale alpha in these parts. Is it safe to guess what this phone call is for, then</i>?" </p>
<p>Peter laughs. "Yes," he says. "I was hoping I might meet with you to discuss alliances and treaties." His good humour fades a little as he adds, "I -- am wolf enough to admit that I owe you a great deal for mentoring Stiles. My wolf recognised him as our mate the very first time I scented him but I was -- we only began courting recently; I wasn't in a condition to do so properly, as he deserves, before that. You have my gratitude for caring for him when I couldn't. If there's anything I or my pack can do for you --." </p>
<p>He trails off, listens as her heartbeat stays steady, as her breathing retains an even flow in and out. "<i>Making such an open-ended offer when one of your pack is a Spark can be quite a dangerous thing, Peter Hale</i>," Satomi says. </p>
<p>"You're a good person and a good alpha," Peter replies. "You wouldn't take advantage of such an offer and if you did, it would go a long way toward telling me how stringent the lines of our new alliance have to be. But I won't be persuaded to take my offer back." </p>
<p>"<i>Stiles has done much for my pack already</i>," Satomi says. "<i>The care was offered and accepted in both directions</i>." She stops there; Peter waits because she seems like she's not entirely done speaking, is, instead, pausing to think. About what, he's not sure, but he's hopeful it's nothing bad. "<i>I would like to meet with you, your mate, and your second</i>," Satomi finally says. "<i>Perhaps Wednesday, after Stiles gets out of school? I can make arrangements to book one of the rooms at the Beacon Hills Community Centre</i>." </p>
<p>Peter snorts, says, "I've been meaning to introduce Derek to Rania." Satomi laughs a little as well; Peter's not sure if she remembers Derek from before the fire but Stiles has apparently told her stories of what Derek is like these days. No doubt Satomi will get as much entertainment watching Rania fawn over Derek as Peter's expecting to. "Yes, please make arrangements for Wednesday -- if you don't mind. On another note, and not that I foresee a need between us, but do you know who might be the nearest mediator to Beacon Hills? One who isn't a druid," Peter's quick to add. "Stiles has some outstanding alliances that I'll need to go over now that he's acknowledged an alpha and I don't expect all of those discussions to be -- easily resolved." </p>
<p>Mediators aren't common -- generally emissaries serve that function -- so Peter's surprised when Satomi replies, "<i>Apart from the two druids, there's actually a mediator who lives within the county lines</i>." Evidently she can read his shock into his silence and the sudden spike in his heart rate, because she quickly says, "<i>Stiles knows him; Stiles can vouch for him. Shall I invite him to our meeting on Wednesday? Settling an alliance under the aegis of a mediator is never a bad thing</i>." </p>
<p>After a moment's consideration, jotting another three notes down -- and underlining the one that says <i>mediator???</i>, Peter says, "No, not unless that's your preference. Stiles can introduce me later. There's enough we have to do right now that takes precedence." </p>
<p>"<i>Of course</i>," Satomi says. "<i>Is there anything else you'd like to discuss right now, without other ears around</i>?" </p>
<p>Peter smiles, just a little. "Stiles," he says. "Is he -- has -- we've talked, a little, but --. How has he been? I mean, apart from what he's told the rest of us, or let slip, how has he <i>really</i> been?" </p>
<p>Satomi lets out a little puff of air. Peter's not sure if it means she's amused or thinking or trying to find a delicate way to break bad news. "<i>He told you about Medina</i>?" Peter growls, a little rumbling noise, and Satomi laughs. "<i>Yes, exactly. I was </i> furious<i> at him for going to her -- furious and terrified and -- but that's Stiles, isn't it. That's just how he is. I confess, Peter: I do not understand how his father and so-called best friend don't recognise how headstrong and beautiful and self-sacrificing he is, that they have not found ways to temper his ferocity and that they seem unable to see how violently he propels himself through life and have never -- not reined him in, no one could do that, but --. It's infuriating. It's infuriating that they don't see how much he wishes he was different, 'normal,' he's called it. Even before the Spark manifested, but especially after, my pack and I have endeavoured to offer comfort and support when he's spent time with us. We've tried to convince him that he is a </i>gift<i>, and I know that Medina has as well, but I've scented the way he talks about you and I know that he'll learn to accept it from you the way he never did with us</i>." </p>
<p>"Let's hope so," Peter says. There's an awesome sense of responsibility that comes from being an alpha, even more from being the alpha of a Spark, even <i>more</i> that comes from being a Spark's mate, but Peter's never felt it weigh so heavily on him. He doesn't want to ask but he thinks that bringing up the subject with someone other than Stiles will get him an honest -- and perhaps slightly less heartbreaking -- answer, so he steels himself and says, "The way you talk, the way others have talked, even one or two things he's said himself -- has he been suicidal?" </p>
<p>"<i>There have probably been times</i>," Satomi says. She sounds as brittle and hopelessly sad admitting that as Peter feels hearing it. "<i>Not so often recently, I don't think, but -- I wouldn't be surprised if the thought has crossed his mind more than once. I don't know if he's done more than contemplate the idea but --.</i>" </p>
<p>Peter closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose and then rubs his forehead. "I'd follow him into hell to pull him back out," he says, softly. "He won't -- I can't promise he won't feel that way again, but I won't let him do it." </p>
<p>"<i>Take advantage of the bond you share</i>," Satomi suggests. "<i>Be shameless about it. If anything did happen, well. You'd have Medina, which is no small statement, and me, and a dozen other people who'd help you pull him back. You might consider telling him that; I have. His conscience alone wouldn't let him inconvenience so many people. He has been different since he went on his trip with her. I don't know what happened or if something was said, some pact was made, but he's seemed -- more settled, I think, since his return. If that's because of you, because of your bond tightening when you resurrected, then use it, Peter.  You will have our support, all of it, but you are his mate. You're the one who holds the majority of the power, who can feel him and who he'll actually listen to. Use that. Anchor him</i>." </p>
<p>"Thank you for the advice," Peter says, doing as she suggested and taking the opportunity now to check in on his bonds with Stiles. He gets the sense of concentration and frustrated enjoyment from the bonds but then Stiles must notice him, because a moment later the scent of ambrosia and salt floods Peter's nostrils as the heavy weight of Spark-magic caresses his shoulders for a second before disappearing again. "I'll see you on Wednesday, Alpha Ito." </p>
<p>Satomi clicks her tongue in rebuke, but instead of chiding him, she just replies, "<i>Wednesday, Alpha Hale. I look forward to it</i>," before hanging up. </p>
<p>Peter sets his phone down on the counter, gets up and makes a fresh pot of coffee as he considers everything Satomi said -- and everything she didn't say. There's a lot to unpack from such a short conversation but at least she sounds amenable to forming an alliance with them, and obviously doesn't expect anything too complicated if she believes they'll be able to come to the table empty-handed and leave with an agreement by the time the community centre closes. That bodes well. Taking into account Satomi's pacifism and her pack's preference to stay out of political affairs and off hunter radar, no doubt she'll be asking Peter to offer his own pack in her defense as a trade-off for access to her contacts and inclusion in her alliances when allowed. Satomi's old, and respected, and internationally well-connected; Peter could do worse than connect himself to her. Hunting down his pack's enemies has always been something he's enjoyed, too; if Satomi called on him to do the same for her, he'd agree in a heartbeat, alliance or not. </p>
<p>The thought of seeing <i>Stiles</i> in full hunt hits him, then -- the way he spoke to the kittens, the way his magic grew barbs of burning light, the way he looks when he's hungry and wanting and bloody with it. Peter gets shivers, feels his wolf pant and drool in greedy yearning, and has to fight back the urge to go to Stiles right <i>now</i>.</p>
<p>His phone buzzes; Peter goes to the counter, picks it up and checks his texts. </p>
<p><i>Thinking good thoughts, alpha</i>?</p>
<p>Peter huffs out a snort. Little monster. He texts back, <i>When can we go hunting</i>? and pours himself a cup of coffee, adds a generous dash of cream. Peter sips, lets out a satisfied breath at the taste, and sits down just as his phone starts ringing. </p>
<p>"You're supposed to be doing homework," Peter says, answering the call, feeling his eyes go red but not bothering to push them back, not when he's alone and his mate's teasing him. </p>
<p>"<i>Not my fault</i>," Stiles argues. "<i>I was just sitting here, minding my own business, trying to get through math, when all of a sudden the bond to my alpha goes fucking </i>bloodthirsty<i> -- in a good way. What was I supposed to do, just ignore that</i>?" </p>
<p>Peter takes another sip of his coffee, lets the heat of it burn his mouth, lets the heavy weight of cream settle on his tongue and slide down his throat. "Yes," he says. "Well, no, but -- right now, yes." </p>
<p>Stiles groans and Peter can almost <i>feel</i> how hard Stiles is rolling his eyes. "<i>Ugh, fine</i>," Stiles says, and hangs up. </p>
<p>Peter stares at the phone for a moment, eyes narrowed, but he can feel amusement pouring through their bond like a wave of syrupy-sweet carnival cotton-candy, so he lets it go. Instead, he lets it buoy him out of his chair and to the washing machine. Peter hangs up the few things that need to air-dry, throws the rest in the dryer, and heads back to the kitchen. He takes another sip of coffee, opens the container of parmesan crisps and eats his way through three before he rolls his eyes at himself for wasting time that could be better spent doing what he has to and then going back to Stiles. With a sigh, Peter chooses another of Stiles' recently-added contacts from the list on his phone and, before he can talk himself out of it, he presses the icon to call. </p>
<p>The line rings once, twice, three times, and just when Peter thinks he's escaped and will be able to leave a voicemail, Soledad Medina answers with a sleepy, vaguely irritated, "<i>What</i>." </p>
<p>Peter blinks, steadies himself and tries not to think of bony knuckles surrounded by shadows glimmering like oil slicks. "This is Peter Hale," he says. "Stiles gave me your number." </p>
<p>There's a pause, the vague noises of a bitten-back yawn, and Medina says, "<i>And</i>?" </p>
<p>God, no one else can push Peter off-balance the way this woman does -- except Stiles. Perhaps it was fate that she and Stiles would end up working together. </p>
<p>"Stiles accepted my mating bite after I killed Deucalion for his alpha spark," Peter says. "He said that you two are magically bonded; if that means --" </p>
<p>She cuts him off, says, "<i>That little idiot broke the contract</i>?" For a moment, Peter thinks she's furious at Stiles for waving the effects of a broken breath-bound magical contract aside and he's <i>seething</i>; no matter how much she scares him, she doesn't get to talk about Stiles like that and he'll <i>kill</i> her, find a way through her demons so can rip out her throat -- except then she says, "<i>He wasn't even five days settled after nearly fading away into magic and he thought he was strong enough to handle the repercussions from breaking the contract like that</i>?" </p>
<p>Peter breathes. All right, that's -- that's fine, even good. She's not upset Stiles told Peter her name, she's upset he <i>took the chance</i>. He exhales sharply, waits for his understanding to pass down to the wolf, and says, "The anchor was strong and he didn't break the secrecy full-tilt so much as give me enough clues so I could figure it out myself." </p>
<p>Medina huffs, mutters, "<i>Sneaky</i>," and sounds as if she expected nothing less. "<i>So, you're calling now because -- hold on</i>," and the pissed-off, frustrated tone shifts into glee so fast that Peter's head almost spins. "<i>Peter </i>Hale. <i>I remember you. Twitchy little thing. Woefully underutilised. Hmph. Well. At least you'll be better than your sister, and you'll have Stiles to keep all of your pack's little paws and claws in line</i>."</p>
<p>Peter's relationship with Talia was always -- tense. She didn't want to admit that a modern-day, civilised pack would ever need an executioner and she kept him at arm's length from the rest of the pack as a result of her distaste for his position, the very one <i>she</i> gave him. Being around the pack was an exercise in caution; packs take their leads from the alpha and if Talia was uncomfortable with him, that fed into the bonds until everyone else felt the same way, claws always a little too ready to come out, fangs always a little too eager to drop. When Talia agreed to bond Deaton as her emissary, that just pushed Peter further away, with his well-known dislike of druids. </p>
<p>He hadn't realised that Talia was so disrespected outside of their pack, though. Even after all these years, even after the fire, it makes something inside of him snidely pleased with how much better an alpha everyone thinks he'll make. </p>
<p>"Stiles will no doubt keep <i>all</i> of us in line," Peter says, carefully, though judging by the way Medina laughs, she heard the tone of voice he was trying to hide. </p>
<p>"<i>You're telling me you don't have ways around him, if it suited you</i>?" she asks. "<i>Come now, alpha, I think we both know better than that</i>." </p>
<p>Peter blanches. There's no mistaking the humour in her voice -- just like there's no mistaking the threat. "He's my mate, and my emissary," Peter says, "and above all that, a Spark who's claimed me. I would <i>never</i> --" </p>
<p>Medina cuts him off again; Peter thinks that's apparently either a habit or she's trying to piss him off just to see what he'll do. "<i>What did the claim feel like to you</i>?" </p>
<p>There's no holding back the snarl at such a personal, invasive question. "None of your business," he snaps. </p>
<p>For a moment, he holds his breath, waiting for her to snap back at him, for demons to start streaming through his walls and windows, for some kind of response. The one he gets is not what he expected. </p>
<p>"<i>Yeah</i>," she says, soft now. "<i>It's a lot. Like he dug his fingers right into the fucking centre of everything you were and are and might be and then -- held you. And never let go</i>." She exhales, deep. "<i>So. Bonded by contract. Fair enough. Come with Stiles the next time he makes his way down here. I'll go easy on you, for his sake</i>." </p>
<p>She hangs up, just like that. Peter puts the phone down, then slouches back in the bar stool in hopes that his head will stop spinning. </p>
<p>It takes a while. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Peter's wolf aches to go back to their mate. He thinks it's probably going to be like this for a while, though hopefully not forever. Stiles still has a year of high school -- though thank god they're only a few weeks away from summer vacation -- and college after that. Peter stops, considers the question of college. Stiles has never mentioned wanting to go and he probably wouldn't <i>need</i> to but he might want to. Now that he thinks about it, he and Stiles didn't really speak about their plans for the future. That seems like a rather large oversight. </p>
<p>He supposes that discussing their respective pasts and the immediate issues of the present were more important but, apart from vague plans for a pack house and deciding which of the current supernatural residents of Beacon Hills they're both willing to invite into their pack, there's been no talk in the past week of how Stiles sees their long-term future playing out. Stiles hasn't even mentioned anything about it in the past, and they've spent many a long night together researching for their pack or talking idly over coffee and pastries and take-out. </p>
<p>Does Stiles not trust him? Or is that Stiles doesn't actually have plans? Either option is equally disturbing and, now that he's thinking about it, it's much, much harder to ignore the idea that Stiles has never planned for the future because he never expected to have one.</p>
<p>His conversation with Satomi rings through his mind as he taps his fingers on the counter and drinks the rest of his coffee. He checks his bond with Stiles, feels nothing but growing exasperation coming from Stiles' end -- no doubt he's stuck on one of his math problems. Peter could stay, finish what he needs to, wait for the dryer to finish, but the wolf's restless and Peter's on edge, Satomi's words running through his mind over and over again: <i>I wouldn't be surprised if the thought has crossed his mind more than once.</i></p>
<p>Peter turns off the coffeemaker, grabs his keys, and leaves. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Peter parks on the street outside of Stiles' house. As he's walking up the drive to the front door, Stiles opens the door, stands there frowning at him. </p>
<p>"What's wrong?" Stiles asks. "I didn't think you were coming back this soon." </p>
<p>"Missed you," Peter says. When he gets to Stiles, he kisses Stiles' cheek. Stiles just -- keeps looking at him, one eyebrow raised, clearly not willing to let Peter off the hook. "The wolf didn't want to be away from you and I figured I could tell you about my phone calls to Satomi and Mage Medina before your father gets home." Peter pauses, asks, "He <i>is</i> coming home, right?"</p>
<p>Stiles rolls his eyes, says, "Fine, keep your secrets," as he turns around and goes inside, leaving the door open for Peter to follow. "He usually doesn't text me until his scheduled shift's nearly over; he doesn't know before the shift change if he's going to need to stay. I was gonna finish math and then put something in the oven for him. If he doesn't come home, I'll  just take dinner over to him." </p>
<p>Peter follows Stiles inside, kicks off his shoes at the door, leans against one of the chairs at the kitchen table as Stiles slides back into his, making a disgruntled sound at the sight of his homework. "I can put something together," Peter offers. "That way you can keep going. How much more do you have?" </p>
<p>"Surprisingly? Not much," Stiles says. "Half a dozen more math sets, a one page response to a reading in history, a Spanish worksheet, and some chem shit." Peter raises an eyebrow and Stiles huffs, clearly assuming -- correctly -- that Peter listened to his heartbeat for any sign of lies. Not, Peter thinks, that it would truly matter, as Stiles can steady his heartbeat, but he likes to think Stiles wouldn't lie to him, especially about something as trivial as school. "Most of the teachers are starting to wrap things up so they can prep us for final projects and exams. We're working on papers for English; Spanish is an oral exam but our teacher's pretty awesome so she's going with immersion right now and showing movies every class -- actually, I'm kinda pissed I missed <i>The Muppets</i> last week. Chem and history are gonna be multiple choice exams, mostly, and we're actually a little ahead of where we should be right now, so they've already started review, and Finstock's teaching sociology, so that's, y'know, <i>fine</i>. It's just math; we're behind and Lydia wants me to ace the final so I can take AP Calc with her next year. I've been pushing to keep up with her but I think I'm in pretty good shape. A couple of the sets she brought me are optional for extra credit, which never hurts." </p>
<p>Peter sits down, glances over the math that Stiles is working on. It looks horribly complicated, though he's not sure if that's the math or the chicken-scratch of Stiles' handwriting as he shows his work. "What's your schedule look like for next year?" he asks. </p>
<p>Stiles narrows his eyes, picking up his pencil and biting the eraser as he studies Peter. Peter expects Stiles to challenge him, but Stiles says, "It's mostly AP classes. Calc, government, English, Physics. Spanish Four, so I'll get bullied into taking the AP test for that. I was thinking of taking psych for the hell of it, but Lydia wants me to do something that'd make me look more well-rounded on college applications," he says, grumpily. </p>
<p>"If you want to take psych, take psych," Peter says, "though when you say 'for the hell of it,' you mean as a blow-off class, don't you." </p>
<p>"Yeah," Stiles laughs. "That one should be easy to pass. I, uh." He pauses, taps the eraser against his teeth a couple times, says, "Lydia's gonna be taking a couple credits at Beacon County Community in the afternoon, do an early-release schedule. I was thinking of doing the same thing. Early-release, I mean, not necessarily college." </p>
<p>Peter resists the urge to crow at getting the conversation <i>exactly</i> where he wanted it. The wolf has no such restraint, practically yipping at a successful hunt. Stiles tilts his head, eyes narrowing and the scent of suspicion starting to waft off of him, as though he heard the wolf and isn't sure why it sounds so pleased with itself. "Which colleges do you plan on applying to?" Peter asks. The scent of suspicion grows, which Peter doesn't mind. What he <i>does</i> mind, though, is the edge of resignation that comes with it. </p>
<p>"Dunno," he says. Stiles' heart skips a beat. Lie, then. "Lydia thinks we should stick together. She's applying to Stanford, Columbia, Princeton, Duke, a few of the colleges around Boston." Even heartbeat -- truth. </p>
<p>"Stiles," Peter says, "I should have asked you before. You've never said anything about college; I'd like to know what <i>you</i> want. What do you see yourself studying? Doing? If it's a question of money, or distance, or --." </p>
<p>He stops, trails off at the look on Stiles' face, the way he's sitting, slouched back, still, looking down at the table, all of his normal fidgets stopped. </p>
<p>Stiles finally shrugs one shoulder when it's clear that Peter's willing to outwait him. "I don't know," he says, sounds blank, distant. The wolf whines. "I don't -- I know that -- I've never --. College -- it's not something I need, now. Paying that much money for something I don't need seems wasteful. And I'd never take a scholarship from someone else who needs it more than me. I mean," and he looks at Peter, looks so fucking young and lost that it breaks Peter's heart. "What kind of career could I even have? I'm a <i>Spark</i>." </p>
<p>"Explain that to me," Peter says. He reaches over, takes the pencil out of Stiles' hand and then grips Stiles' fingers tight, grounding both of them. "Explain what you mean by that. You're a Spark, so you think you couldn't work?"</p>
<p>"I have alliances and treaties with people all over the country," Stiles says. "I'll probably end up with international ones, too, the way you are. If they need me, if I have to go, then, what, I'm supposed to submit a PTO request? Call in sick for three days or three weeks or three months? What happens if Mab summons me and I go into faerie and don't come out for half a year? There's no kind of career that allows for shit like that. And --." </p>
<p>He stops, just like he ran into a conversational brick wall. Peter waits, ends up squeezing Stiles' hand and saying, "And?" </p>
<p>Stiles bites his bottom lip, looks away from Peter. "Dad always had this idea of me following his footsteps, y'know? Not the army, but college, FBI, come back a few years after that and take over from him. And I know that wouldn't work now, but I -- it seemed -- good. Right. It made sense. I've got the brain for it, I know that, but -- there's a lot that I <i>don't</i> have, like a respect for procedure and authority," he says, snorting at himself. "I never saw myself doing that. It would make him happy and it would be an easy path to follow, something uncomplicated, a place where I could do good, but I always -- I just -- I dunno."</p>
<p>"Tell me," Peter says. "Please. I'm asking as your mate, Stiles, to know what would make <i>you</i> happy." </p>
<p>The scent coming off of Stiles is arid, all sand-bleached bone and parched deserts, hints of large starving creatures moving slow under dunes and lightning arcing through a clear sky, no rain or thunder. Peter <i>hates</i> it. </p>
<p>"I never thought I'd live this long," Stiles admits. "First, I thought -- mom, y'know. And then, dad -- when he was drinking, I figured he'd die, and I'd follow him. And then, after Scott, well, running with wolves isn't the safest thing. The Spark -- what it made me, it's -- but I guess --. I always just wanted -- home. People to love and take care of and just <i>be</i> with. I don't wanna leave Beacon Hills the way Lydia does. I never have. Going other places, travelling, vacations, sure, but -- but this is my <i>home</i>."</p>
<p>Peter thinks about it, about what Stiles is saying and what he isn't, about everything he's said before, especially over the last week. He asks, tentatively, carefully, "If you could do anything, be anything -- if there was no Spark, no magic, no wolves, what would you choose?" </p>
<p>Stiles' eyes brim with tears, droplets flickering prismatic through all shades of the rainbow, stuck as they are between the light coming off of Stiles' body and the white of his Spark-lit eyes. "I don't know," he says. "Isn't that sad?" </p>
<p>"Maybe," Peter says, softly. "But it's understandable. And you have time to think about it. If you decide to, oh, I don't know, open your own business? Or work odd jobs around town? Or lay on the couch and eat chocolate all day? You can. Whatever you want, you can." </p>
<p>"I don't wanna leave," Stiles says. "I don't wanna go to school somewhere else." </p>
<p>Peter lets go of Stiles' hand, brushes his thumb under Stiles' eye, across his cheek. "You don't have to," he says. "Lydia will be fine without you. You and I both know that she might want the safety of having her best friend with her, but she'll conquer whatever new hunting ground she finds herself in just fine. Don't feel guilty about letting her set out on her own, when it's time. We'll make a home here for her to come back to whenever she wants." </p>
<p>Stiles tilts his head into Peter's palm, lets out a deep breath. "You're weirdly perfect," he says. "It's terrifying." </p>
<p>"Perfect for you, maybe," Peter says, trying not to preen at the honesty in the compliment -- and failing miserably, judging by the way Stiles huffs out a laugh. When he's deemed Stiles calm again, when the tears have been blinked back and Stiles is wrinkling his nose at math, Peter says, "Finish that off while I go see what's in your kitchen. Did you have anything in mind for your father?"</p>
<p>"There's some chicken thawing in the sink," Stiles says. "I was thinking casserole, maybe stir fry. Something with lots of vegetables; I doubt he stuck to his diet while I was gone." Stiles makes a face. "It's all burgers and bacon and cheese and eighteen tonnes of grease if I'm not around to police him."</p>
<p>Peter stands up, asking, "Does he <i>actually</i> have a diet plan?" He's heard Stiles mention it once or twice but McCall never seemed to, and the few times he's seen the sheriff around town, the man's smelled of diners and dive bars and always, every time, the stink of whiskey. "Or are you just trying to keep him as healthy as possible?"</p>
<p>Stiles leans back in his chair, turned in his seat to watch Peter's progress over to the cabinets where Peter can smell rice and crackers and the types of metal and plastic and foil specific to food. "His doctor gave him one," Stiles says. "It's on the side of the fridge. Of course, that was years ago and his blood pressure and cholesterol are only <i>worse</i> now, but he's convinced that the meds he takes for both are good enough." </p>
<p>One more thing to add to the tally of ways Stiles' father has failed his son. If he can't be bothered to listen to a doctor for his own sake, he should have done so for Stiles', especially if one heart attack is all that stands between Stiles and the foster system. Half of Peter -- the more lupine half -- wants to go and shake some sense into the sheriff, preferably letting out a little blood along the way. The other half just thinks of Amanda's statement about Linda at the courthouse. Stiles wouldn't go into the system; he's old enough for emancipation or marriage, and he has Peter who will pursue either of those options or whatever else Stiles might come up with. Actually, knowing that, perhaps introducing more than a <i>little</i> of the sheriff's blood to the outside wouldn't go amiss. </p>
<p>"Please don't kill my dad," Stiles says. He sounds tired. "Not yet, not while things are still in flux. I know you want to, but -- you can wait, right? For now? Please?" </p>
<p>"Anything for you," Peter says, <i>vows</i>. He opens the freezer, sees broccoli florets and carrots and cauliflower rice. "I could do a casserole with the cauliflower rice. I'd normally use cream and cream cheese, but," and he opens the fridge, nods to himself. "It'll work with skim milk. Do you have cream of chicken soup?" </p>
<p>Stiles gestures at a different cabinet. "Reduced sodium," he says, "and bone broth instead of stock; the collagen's good for his joints. Thanks, Peter. I'll try and finish this up." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>It doesn't take long for Peter to put the casserole together and get it in the oven. He actually spends more time looking through the cabinets, fridge, and freezer. It's a surprisingly well-stocked kitchen, with a wide variety of bone broths and flours and spices, high-iron vegetables and sliced fruit in the freezer, nothing overly sugary or salty, hardly anything processed. Peter considers this, can't help but put all sorts of clues together, and he glances over at Stiles, thinking. He gets distracted for a brief moment at the sight of Stiles bent over the table, the long line of his neck glowing in Peter's sight, the scarred mating bite flashing every so often as Stiles flips his pencil upside down to erase something, </p>
<p>"You're staring again," Stiles says, without taking his eyes off the worksheet. He frowns, scribbles something, then looks up at Peter. "Creeper," he adds, grinning a little. </p>
<p>"Do you like to cook?" Peter asks. </p>
<p>Stiles looks puzzled, ends up shrugging. "It's all right," he says. "I don't mind it, but it's not my favourite thing in the world to do. Sometimes it's calming, I guess, but it's mostly just -- spending an hour to cook when it only takes ten minutes to eat. Why?" </p>
<p>Peter shakes his head, says, "No reason," and leans one hip against the counter. </p>
<p>"You know, when you came over, you said you wanted to tell me how your calls with Satomi and Solé went," Stiles says, apparently giving up on math as he sets the pencil down and closes his textbook. "We got sidetracked, but -- you could tell me now." </p>
<p>"They went well," Peter says. He crosses the room, moves one of the chairs so he can sit next to Stiles, breathe in the smell of his mate, lingering notes of focus taking their time to fade from the edges of his scent, giving way to small, little soft cotton bolls drenched in the lemon-eucalyptus of adoration and relief. "Satomi wants to meet with us Wednesday after you get out of school to negotiate the alliance between our packs. She's going to reserve a room at the community centre." He pauses, grins wickedly, adds, "She wants Derek to come as well, as my second." </p>
<p>Stiles purses his lips but spots of colour show up in his cheeks; he's snickering a moment later, unable to hold them back. "Oh god," he says. "Rania. Derek's gonna <i>kill</i> us." </p>
<p>Peter laughs as well, can't help it, not with his mate laughing, smiling, smelling relaxed and happy. "Worth it," he says. "But -- yes. Satomi did mention there was a mediator living within our territory. Will we have to do anything about him?" </p>
<p>Wincing, Stiles says, "Ah. I forgot about that. Him. Sorry. He's, uh. Pretty chill? Surprisingly chill, actually. So we should be okay there." </p>
<p>There's obviously something that Stiles isn't saying but Peter also recognises the stubborn cant to his jaw that means no amount of wheedling will work to get Stiles to speak. "Mage Medina," Peter says, noting the way Stiles instantly relaxes as Peter backs down, "wants me to accompany you the next time you travel to see her. Which would be when, exactly? I need to know my deadline for getting my affairs in order."</p>
<p>"Thursday, maybe?" Stiles says. "I assume we're going to get bombarded tomorrow after school, Tuesday we should leave open for Lydia and Derek and any negotiations with other people, Wednesday we have Satomi. Depending on how things go tomorrow and Tuesday, we can push Solé back to the weekend but we shouldn't leave it any longer than that. I texted her about Tish when we were in Dallas so she knows that something happened there, but I owe her an explanation." Peter opens his mouth and Stiles rolls his eyes. "I know, I know," he mutters. "I don't owe anyone anything. But Solé really <i>is</i> a friend." </p>
<p>"You have an interesting taste in friends," Peter says. Stiles grins but doesn't deny it. </p>
<p>He can't, really.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>While the casserole's cooking and Stiles is steadily making his way through his homework, Peter goes upstairs -- with Stiles' blessing -- to pick out something to read. He comes back down with one of the diaries that Lydia mentioned earlier and sits across the table from Stiles, feet propped up on one of the other chairs. He wasn't expecting much, figured that it would do enough to keep him lightly entertained, but he's been engrossed since the third page. It's a fascinating piece of history; the author is a descendent of freshwater selkies living in and around the Great Lakes, and writes with a stunning wit and sharply dry sense of humour. When Stiles' phone goes off, it startles Peter out of a recounting of a shipwreck that is never explicitly named or dated, but has to be, by all the context clues, the Edmund fucking Fitzgerald. He looks up from the book with red eyes, gaze fixed on Stiles as he picks up his phone to check his texts. </p>
<p>"Dad's working the night shift," Stiles says, a moment later. He looks resigned, smells it, too. "When d'you wanna take dinner over to him?" </p>
<p>"Whenever you want," Peter says. He nods at Stiles' stack of homework, the finished math, history, and Spanish. Stiles is on his chemistry, now, and it looks like he's nearly done. Not for the first time, Peter wonders at Stiles' ability to hyperfocus, even on things he doesn't like. "How close are you to finishing?" </p>
<p>Stiles glances over his notebook, flips a couple pages in the textbook, says, "Twenty minutes, maybe? Actually, that's perfect. By the time I finish and we get something packed for dad, he'll be through with shift change. You good with that?" and he nods at the diary in Peter's hands. </p>
<p>"It's fascinating," Peter says. "Where'd you get it from?" </p>
<p>Stiles' expression goes shifty. "Around." </p>
<p>Peter hums lightly, doesn't push. Instead, he pointedly turns his attention back to the book. Stiles keeps his eyes on Peter for another few seconds, then goes back to his chemistry homework. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Forty-five minutes later, Peter pulls into a parking space outside of the sheriff's station. Stiles hops out of Peter's car, a few Tupperware containers stacked haphazardly in his hands, and heads right for the door. Peter follows, a little more cautiously, but does get to the doors in time to open them for Stiles so he doesn't have to juggle what he's carrying. </p>
<p>"Thanks, alpha," Stiles says, leaning over to give Peter a kiss on the cheek. Peter bites back a smile, though it drops entirely of its own accord when he gets inside and sees the deputy on duty at the front desk giving him a narrow-eyed look. Stiles must see it as well -- it's quite obvious that Peter's getting the stink eye -- but he ignores it, leaning against the counter and giving the deputy one of the Tupperware containers. "Hey, Becca! Chicken casserole for dinner tonight, since I figured you probably didn't get a chance to go to the grocery store this weekend. Don't worry -- it's dad-approved but still tasty. I may or may not have licked the dish clean before it went in the dishwasher; no one knows for sure and you ain't got nothing on me." </p>
<p>Becca -- Cordova, according to the name stitched into her uniform -- gives Stiles a long-suffering smile. "Thanks, kid. I'll let your dad be the judge of how good it is. You know me, I'll eat just about anything if it's homemade. Who -- uh. Who've you got with you there?" </p>
<p>Peter offers the deputy a hand, says, "Peter Hale." </p>
<p>"Rebecca Cordova," she says, grasping it tightly, squeezing as she shakes. It doesn't hurt Peter, doesn't come across as the threat she thinks she's making, so he merely raises an eyebrow as she lets go. "Why're you chauffeuring Stiles around?" then looks at Stiles, asks, "That Jeep crap out on you again? We haven't seen you around in a few days." </p>
<p>"Nah," Stiles says, "I was sick earlier this week, didn't wanna spread it among the good deputies protecting Beacon Hills. All better now!" he's quick to add, when Cordova gives the Tupperware a suspicious look. "Peter swung by to make sure I wasn't sleeping half the day away and offered to drive. You know what gas prices are like these days; I wasn't gonna turn him down." </p>
<p>Cordova doesn't look convinced, but she buzzes the door behind her open, tilts her head, says, "Go on, go feed your dad before he starts taking orders for the diner." </p>
<p>Stiles makes a face and darts behind the desk, using his foot to tap the door open. "C'mon, Peter," he says, looking over his shoulder and grinning. The smile hasn't reached Stiles' eyes. </p>
<p>Peter trails Stiles through the bullpens and towards the sheriff's office. Stiles drops one more container on a desk they pass, telling Peter, "Deputy Poole. She's new, since Matt. I think she's pregnant -- she's been watching her diet lately, eating lots of leafy greens and, see, a bottle of fish oil pills on her desk." </p>
<p>"Why did that make you think pregnancy?" Peter asks, keeping his voice down. </p>
<p>Stiles looks back at him, flashes Spark-white eyes, says, "Okay, maybe I don't <i>think</i>. But the clues are there for normal people, too," right before he blinks his eyes back to normal. Peter wants to press at Stiles' use of the word 'normal,' there, thoughts of his conversation with Satomi playing in the back of his mind, but before he can reach out to stop Stiles, his mate's tapping on the door to his father's office, opening it without waiting for an invitation. "Oh, come on, dad," Stiles says. When Peter gets to the door, he sees why: the sheriff's holding a greasy menu, has one hand on the phone. "Doc's not gonna be happy with your next set of blood tests at this rate." </p>
<p>He thumps the last container down in front of his father, takes the menu out of the sheriff's hands, and crumples it up, throws it in the garbage. </p>
<p>The sheriff looks down at the Tupperware and sighs. "Thanks for dinner," he says, and doesn't mean a word of it. Peter could just <i>murder</i> him. The sheriff looks up, eyes sliding past Stiles to land on Peter. "What's with the Hale?" </p>
<p>"Always a pleasure to see you as well, Sheriff Stilinski," Peter says. "You're doing well, I hope?" </p>
<p>"I <i>was</i>," the sheriff mutters, eyes dipping down to the Tupperware, "when I thought I was having a burger for dinner." </p>
<p>Peter doesn't have to search to smell the absolute reek of tired, worn-in hurt pouring out of Stiles. The wolf snarls, snaps its fangs, and Peter has to fight to maintain control in the face of his mate's bitterness. The fact that Stiles expected this, that he doesn't even bother arguing, means it's an old conversation -- and he <i>still</i> cares enough for the man to continue, even knowing what sort of reaction he's going to get. </p>
<p>"Now that I know you're not going to bother buttering me up," the sheriff says, pinning his eyes on Stiles, "you gonna tell me where you were for the past week? Scott came by looking for you, said you weren't at school Thursday and Friday. Was it -- everything's okay? You're okay?" </p>
<p>"Yeah, dad," Stiles says, collapsing into the chair in front of the sheriff's desk. Peter chooses to perch on the couch, closest to the door to keep an ear out for anyone moving around the bullpen but also within kicking distance of Stiles' chair. "Everything's fine. There was a thing, so I spent all my non-school hours researching with Peter since he's got the best library around. By the time Wednesday night hit, I wasn't feeling too good -- that flu I've had off and on for the last few weeks? It kicked in again; I think it was probably the late nights. I figured it'd be better if I stayed with Peter to rest up instead of infecting you. Also, a big plus here: there's nothing like having someone with werewolf reflexes around when you're puking your guts up. Lydia picked up my homework, though, and I'm all caught up so there's nothing to worry about with my grades, promise." </p>
<p>Stiles' heart doesn't skip once. </p>
<p>"You're supposed to tell me when there's a 'thing,'" the sheriff says. "And you're not supposed to be staying overnight with Hale." </p>
<p>"Since when?" Stiles asks. Peter's not sure if the surprise is real or not, but it certainly <i>smells</i> real. "You've never said anything about that." </p>
<p>The sheriff leans forward. "I didn't think I needed to," he says. "How long have the two of you been close enough for you to feel comfortable crashing at his place? More than once?" </p>
<p>Peter clears his throat. It takes the sheriff a long moment to tear his eyes away from Stiles and the gaze he sets on Peter is hard, combative, suspicious. "Since he was clearly too tired to drive home safely," Peter says, "and then too sick to move. We're pack, sheriff; surely you won't chastise your son for being with pack?" </p>
<p>"He's <i>my</i> son," the sheriff says, "so if I want to <i>chastise</i> him, Hale, I will. And since when are you pack? Scott's never said that. He's never trusted you and if it wasn't for --." </p>
<p>The sheriff stops. Stiles lets out a deep breath. "If it wasn't for his name, his money, and his knowledge, Scott wouldn't allow him to stay?" Stiles guesses. "Dad. Peter's pack, <i>my</i> pack. It doesn't matter if Scott claims him or not, because I do." </p>
<p>The sheriff scoffs. "He needs an alpha or he'll go mad. Again." </p>
<p>"If he has pack bonds, he won't," Stiles says. "And he does have bonds, so he'll be fine." </p>
<p>"I don't like this," the sheriff says. "I thought Scott forbid the two of you from spending time together." </p>
<p>Peter tilts his head. The sheriff's heart skipped, a little; he's told a half-lie, there, and Peter's intrigued. He can feel Stiles' curiosity through the bond, and his mate looks at him as Peter guesses, "You didn't <i>think</i> Scott forbid us. You knew for a fact that Scott banned me from spending time with Stiles. Were you the one who asked him to lay that alpha command on me or did he tell you after, to reassure you?" The sheriff's jaw clenches. Peter scents disappointment coming from Stiles, that and a slowly-dawning realisation that bleeds fury and pain both. </p>
<p>"I didn't know Scott did that," Stiles says, still looking at Peter. For a moment, a split-second that Peter could almost convince himself he imagined, Stiles' eyes flash white. "You never told me about that." </p>
<p>"It was very poorly worded," Peter says, "and only directed at stopping me from reaching out. I had wondered if he'd done the same to you and you just ignored it -- but he never told you, did he. He thought it was all one-sided." </p>
<p>The flare of bitter fury sweeps out from Stiles with the force of a hurricane but disappears as quickly as it appeared. "It's possible he tried," Stiles admits, slowly. "It wouldn't stick, though. He'd never be able to lay a command on me." </p>
<p>The sheriff clears his throat. Peter's gaze moves from Stiles back to Stiles' father, lip curling at the sight of the man, rage and bloodlust filling up his veins. He <i>aches</i> to tear the man apart but, when he sees the sheriff's mouth start to open in question, Peter gets there first. "Just how much time," he asks, "are you spending with Alpha McCall, that you could ask him to do something like that without your son knowing?" </p>
<p>The sheriff's clearly filed away Stiles' comments to return to later; right now, it seems that Peter's his target. "Stiles has been sick," the sheriff snaps, holding up a hand in Stiles' direction as Stiles starts to protest. "I'll get to you in a minute," he tells Stiles, before turning his attention back to Peter. "The pack's been trying to keep him out of -- trying to give him time to recover. And it's good that <i>someone</i> recognises the necessity of keeping me informed. All these unsolved cases, if I'd known then what I know now," and Stiles flinches, "they might not've gone unsolved for so long." </p>
<p>"I was just trying to protect you," Stiles says, softly, though with the way his hands are gripping the chair's arms, it looks like he's bracing himself for anger. </p>
<p>The sheriff shakes his head. "I'm your father," he says. "It's my job to protect you, not the other way 'round." He rubs his forehead, adds on, almost as afterthought, "An old argument, and a pointless one, now that Scott's been keeping me up to date." </p>
<p>Stiles licks his lips, shifts in his chair. Peter's not sure what to make of the scent wafting off of Stiles, nor of the feelings ricocheting down their bond, too many filtering through too fast to pick out any one in particular. He can feel the Spark, though, feels the heat of it in the air and can see the effects of it as the lacquer on the chair bubbles and warps around Stiles' fingers. There's no light, though, just that blistering heat and the scent, when Peter inhales, of storms turning the air electric with potential. Stiles asks, carefully, "Were you the one that tried to get Scott to keep me and Peter apart, dad?" There's no answer from the sheriff, which is answer enough for Stiles -- for Peter, too. "Dad. Peter's <i>pack</i>." </p>
<p>"Not to us," the sheriff says. </p>
<p>"Maybe not to you," Stiles says. "Not to Scott. But he is to me. He has been for a long time." </p>
<p>The sheriff slams his hand on the desk, stands up. Peter's on his feet the next instant, moves to stand behind Stiles, puts his hands on Stiles' shoulders. His claws emerge, poke through Stiles' shirt enough for Stiles to feel but not enough to dig in and make Stiles bleed. Stiles is tense under Peter's touch, his knuckles white as they grip the chair. </p>
<p>"He bit your brother, Stiles," the sheriff says. "He's the one who started <i>everything</i> that's gone wrong in this town." </p>
<p>"I believe," Peter says, mildly, "you can lay the blame for that on the Argents. You know, the ones who kidnapped and tortured your son." The sheriff blinks, and Peter goes, "Ah. You <i>didn't</i> know. How disappointingly unsurprising. But I'm sure you're aware that our <i>dear</i> Alpha McCall still saw fit to work with them even after he learned that they burned my family alive. Did he ever tell you that he believes they were justified in doing so? You saw the case file, sheriff. How many people did Kate Argent kill? How many did Gerard Argent agree needed murdering? Not all of us were wolves." </p>
<p>The sheriff glares at Peter, dismisses him with a scoff, looks at Stiles and says, "No more. If you're deluded enough to think you have a -- that you have one of these so-called <i>pack bonds</i> with him, then break it. This ends now." </p>
<p>Stiles inhales deep, exhales slow. "No," he says. "I'm not breaking my bond to Peter. I can't. I <i>won't</i>. Please don't ask me again, dad. The answer's always going to be no." </p>
<p>The sheriff closes his eyes for a moment, looks as though he's praying for patience. Peter lets his nostrils flare, takes in the man's scent and tries to categorise it: rage, resolve, disgust, the slightest bit of fear. Peter wonders what on earth McCall's been telling the man to create <i>that</i> cocktail of chemosignals. </p>
<p>"Scott will kick both of you out of the pack," the sheriff says. He stands up straight, arms folded across his chest. "That what you want? You'd be willing to lose everyone else, lose your best friend, your <i>brother</i>, over some monster like <i>Hale</i>?" </p>
<p>"Peter's not a monster and Scott hasn't been much of a brother lately," Stiles says. He shifts and Peter lets go of him; Stiles stands up and takes Peter's hand in his. His father's eyes narrow at the sight. "Scott doesn't understand pack. He never has. Peter does. So I'll take my chances with him and whoever else understands the real meaning of pack." </p>
<p>The sheriff's cheeks go red with anger. Peter's heard the rhythm of his heart skip and settle and speed up, again and again, but right now it's racing, powered on by the man's fury. "That -- that <i>animal</i> is not welcome under my roof." </p>
<p>'<i>My</i> roof,' as if Stiles hasn't done more to keep the place in order, as if every wall and piece of furniture isn't drenched in the memories of Claudia, as if Stiles means <i>nothing</i>. </p>
<p>Stiles laughs, a broken, brittle thing, full of glass shards and needles and teeth. "I'll pack my things." </p>
<p>A brief flicker of shock pushes through the sheriff's scent, as if he'd honestly expected that threat to work. Still, he brushes it off quick enough. "You're a minor," he says. "You can't just leave. But if you wanna throw a tantrum for a few days before you come to your senses, <i>fine</i>. Don't come home until you're ready to apologise and break the bond Hale's talked you into believing exists." </p>
<p>"I left food in the fridge for you," Stiles says. He sounds -- remarkably unaffected from just having been thrown out of his house. If it wasn't for the almost agonising amount of betrayal and rage thrilling through their bond, Peter would assume -- much like the sheriff, judging by the man's expression -- that this means <i>nothing</i> to Stiles. "Eat it or not; it's your choice, I guess. Your clean uniforms are in your closet. Don't forget to take out the garbage on Thursday night." </p>
<p>With that, Stiles turns, lets Peter tug him out of the office. Peter closes the door behind them; they're halfway through the bullpen when there's a thump against the glass. Peter glances back over his shoulder, sees what he guesses must be the casserole sliding down the inside of the door. </p>
<p>What a waste. </p>
<p>Deputy Cordova's not at the front desk when they pass by so there's no one to witness as Stiles' knees practically give out on him before they leave. Peter sweeps Stiles into a bridle carry and Stiles buries his face in Peter's neck as they head out to the parking lot. </p>
<p>Derek's waiting by the car when Peter gets there. He stands up, eyes going wide when they see Stiles, the state he's in, trembling but utterly, completely silent. "I felt like I should be here," Derek says. "Something told me I had to be here." He looks tense, as if he's forcing himself to stand still, to resist -- something. </p>
<p>"Do what your instincts are telling you," Peter says. "Don't fight the wolf, Derek; you don't need to do that with us."</p>
<p>As if Derek was waiting to hear that, he moves, crossing the distance between them in an instant, one hand sliding over Stiles' hip to settle on Stiles' stomach, bending to rub his nose along the line of Stiles' shoulder and upper arm. He whines, just a little, and Stiles untwists enough to bury one hand in Derek's hair, scritching lightly. </p>
<p>"You heard everything?" Peter asks. </p>
<p>Derek growls in answer, scenting Stiles for a moment longer before straightening up. "I heard enough," he says, his eyes flicking over Stiles before settling back on Peter's face, the faintest tinge of blue at the edges of Derek's irises. "More than enough." </p>
<p>"We're going to go pack Stiles up." Peter reaches into his back pocket, takes his keys out to unlock the car, then tosses the keys to Derek. "Drive us back to the sheriff's. Three pairs of hands will work faster than two." </p>
<p>Peter opens the back door and gets inside, doesn't let go of Stiles. Derek gets behind the wheel and drives the three of them out of the station's parking lot. </p>
<p>"He's always liked Scott more than me," Stiles mutters into Peter's skin, when they're halfway back to the sheriff's house. Peter's not going to do the disservice of calling it Stiles' home, not when he thinks it hasn't probably felt like much of a home since his mother started trying to murder him. "I didn't think they were actually plotting behind my back, though." </p>
<p>"I know you said 'not yet,' earlier," Peter starts, "but --." </p>
<p>Stiles cuts him off. "Joel says Parrish is good, but he'll need at least three or four years before he's ready to take over, and the election after next would be best. If anything happened to dad right now, the mayor could appoint someone until the next election and we have no idea who that would be. If it happens closer to the next election, we think we could convince everyone that Deputy Mitchell could serve as interim and then run for one term. So that's -- thirteen months at a minimum." Stiles pauses, glances at Peter, asks, "Unless you'd like to leave it up to chance? There are a couple people who could whisper in the mayor's ear but it's a crapshoot right now." </p>
<p>There's always the possibility that Stiles could be convinced to -- <i>influence</i> the mayor's choice, but Peter knows how inviolable Stiles holds free will. There's a chance, too, that this Parrish Stiles referenced could learn on the job, supported as he would be by Stiles and Joel Abelman, but Stiles has plans and Peter would be foolish to disrupt them without careful consideration. </p>
<p>"I'll leave it in your hands," Peter murmurs. He meets Derek's gaze in the rearview, can smell the determination in his nephew's scent. "Just know that I'm ready, whenever you are, to extract the pound of flesh he owes you. For now, we'll focus on making sure you won't have to go back there, not ever." </p>
<p>Stiles doesn't argue. Peter's not sure if he's actually reached the point where he's not going to fight something that's been inevitable for so long, but he hopes so. Stiles just sighs, rubs his nose against Peter's neck, and asks, quietly, "Why didn't you tell me about what Scott did? I could've undone it."</p>
<p>"I suppose I didn't feel like it mattered," Peter admits. "You still called, came over, spent more time with me than the rest of them. If you hadn't, though, I would've found a way to tell you." </p>
<p>"Don't leave it up to chance, okay?" Stiles asks. "Don't leave anything like that up to chance, Peter, please. Promise me." </p>
<p>Peter bends his neck, rubs his nose along Stiles' forehead, eyelashes catching in Stiles' hair when he blinks. "You have my word, dear-heart." </p>
<p>Stiles pats Peter's leg and then doesn't move until they get to the house. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>When Derek parks, turns the car off, the three of them sit there for a moment. Stiles pulls himself up, Derek twists to look at them, reaches out and hesitantly touches Stiles' arm, just a light brush of fingertips but even that's more than Peter expected from his nephew. </p>
<p>Peter asks, "How much of what's here do you actually want?" </p>
<p>"Some of my clothes," Stiles says. "My books. My pillow. There's a picture of my mom that I -- a couple other knick-knacks. It shouldn't -- god, this sounds awful, but it shouldn't take long. I've got some duffel bags, my laundry basket, but the books might be hard to pack up." </p>
<p>"We'll make it work," Derek says. "Come on, sooner we get you out of here, sooner we can get you settled in at Peter's." </p>
<p>Stiles gets up, out of the car, and Peter follows. Derek gets out on the other side and the three of them stand there for a moment. "This sucks," Stiles says. Peter exchanges glances with Derek, figures his nephew can smell the glee he feels at having Stiles out of this house and safe with him, but also the pain of feeling the betrayal and closed-off anger that's starting to boil at the base of Stiles' scent, like slow-heating lava and the gathering electricity of ferocious storms on the horizon. Stiles takes one more deep breath, then says, "I think we can fit everything between Peter's car and the Jeep," as he makes his way to the front door. "Peter, you and Derek can handle the books; that'll be the majority of it and the heaviest, too. I'll pick out the clothes I want," and here he looks at Peter, gives Peter a wicked smile that's all the more beautiful for how much effort he has to put into it. "I expect you to provide me with everything else," he tells Peter. "Clothes and blankets and shit for the bathroom and food and anything else I can think of." </p>
<p>Peter presses a kiss to Stiles' temple. "It would be my pleasure." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>In the end, it doesn't take long. Stiles looks a little mournful when he realises how little he actually wants to take from the house and Peter -- not to mention the wolf inside of him -- has to kiss and touch Stiles and continuously prod the bond to reassure Stiles that he'll want for nothing now. There's only a duffel of clothes, another of pictures and ticket stubs and baseballs, mementos that bring Stiles a peculiarly melancholic type of happiness when he handles them. </p>
<p>Derek found some boxes in the attic and brought them down; between Derek and Peter, the books had been packed and taken out to the cars within half an hour. Stiles added two pillows and three blankets -- two quilts and an afghan -- to the haul on his bed, shoved his laptop and a few notebooks in his backpack along with the homework that he finished earlier, and by the time Derek and Peter add those things to the Jeep and go back upstairs, Stiles is standing in the middle of his room, turning in a slow circle to look for anything he might've missed. </p>
<p>"We can buy anything you forgot," Peter tells him. "Or sneak in when the sheriff's at work." </p>
<p>"No," Stiles says. "I think that's everything." His eyes shine, shoulders slumped, and even the Spark-light in his eyes looks -- muted, somehow. Outside, it starts to get dark, shadows lengthening across the grass and street. Peter makes sure the window's locked and closes the blinds. "Hey, Peter?" Peter turns, makes a noise of acknowledgment. "Let's go home." </p>
<p>Peter smiles, says, "I think that can be arranged." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Derek drives Peter's car across town and Peter drives the Jeep, telling Stiles that he remembers the Jeep grinds in second, and they'll have to get it rebuilt if only for Peter's peace of mind. The two of them bicker over it, lightly, and Peter's pleased to note that by the time they park in front of the townhouse, Stiles' scent has eased towards normality, mostly, though there's still that hint of lightning lingering around the edges, making the normal level of ozone in his scent more powerful, heavier. </p>
<p>Peter sends Stiles to unlock the front door and clear some space in the living room for the boxes of books. Peter's itching to go through some of them; he had to force himself not to linger over a few of the bestiaries and grimoires and journals when he and Derek were packing them up. He's not sure when Stiles started gathering his library but he has some texts that Peter's never been able to find for sale, one or two that everyone pretty much assumed were lost over the centuries. Much like the half-selkie's journal, though, Stiles sidestepped the question of where the books came from. Peter's always liked unravelling mysteries; he's sure he'll either figure it out or cajole an answer out of Stiles eventually. </p>
<p>It only takes a few trips for him and Derek to unload everything and Peter brings in the last of it to see Stiles getting his laptop out of his backpack and settling on the floor, Derek sitting on the edge of the couch, texting someone. </p>
<p>"Figured Lydia would want to know what happened," Stiles says. His eyes are Spark-white, the light around him dim but noticeable, and his scent brightens with mischief as he adds, "Derek volunteered to text her." </p>
<p>Peter can smell the wariness in Derek's scent, so he merely asks, "Is she coming over?" </p>
<p>Derek looks up at him, shakes his head. "Said she'd pick Stiles up for school in the morning." </p>
<p>Stiles makes a face but doesn't argue, so Peter asks Derek, "Have you eaten dinner yet? Stiles and I were going to make do with what's around here but now I'm thinking we all deserve a little indulgence." Stiles opens his mouth and Peter cuts him off before he can start. "I know you're probably not hungry, but you've only eaten mini quiches since breakfast, and while those have enough calories to see you through 'til tomorrow morning, I'd prefer it if you ate <i>something</i> tonight." </p>
<p>"Can't believe I signed up for a lifetime of this mother-henning shit," Stiles mutters, but he's grinning as he says it, a soft, fond smile. "All right, you tyrant," he says, louder now. "Thai, maybe? That place on Delaware has the best tom kha gai I've ever had and their satay's pretty decent. I think I saw Derek go through an order of panang from there in record time once, though that might've been a time constraint more than anything." </p>
<p>Derek looks startled, says, "I -- yeah, their curry's good. How'd you even remember that?" Stiles shrugs one shoulder and Derek turns from Stiles to Peter, bafflement in his expression and scent. </p>
<p>"I think I have a menu," Peter says, heading for the kitchen and the box on top of the fridge with take-out and delivery menus for all the local places. "Derek, egg rolls?" </p>
<p>"Definitely," Derek says, as he gets up and follows Peter to the kitchen. Peter picks the menu out of the box, spreads it open on the counter, and Derek peers over his shoulder, points at the picture of the summer rolls, says, "These ones?"</p>
<p>Peter gets his phone out from his back pocket, opens one of the notes apps and starts making a list, adds three orders each of summer rolls and chicken satay, then Derek's panang and Stiles' tom kha gai, plus drunken noodles for himself, and a couple extra sides of jasmine rice. "Anything else?" he asks. </p>
<p>Stiles calls out a request for milk tea and Derek asks for an order of the shrimp crackers. Peter adds them both to the list, then shoos Derek away as he calls the restaurant. </p>
<p>With half an hour to wait until the food gets delivered, Peter heads to the living room and surveys the mess of Stiles' belongings. It won't take long to clear out room in his dresser and closet for Stiles' clothes, the blankets  need a wash but Peter has a place those can go until Stiles wants them -- the afghan looks well-used and well-loved, so it'll probably end up on the couch, and Peter idly wonders who made it, because nothing about it looks mass-produced. Peter's going to have to buy more bookshelves; that should work for Stiles' books and his memorabilia. The only question is where to put them. </p>
<p>"Mentally rearranging furniture?" Stiles asks, from where he's sprawled out on his belly, laptop open. Peter can't tell what Stiles is doing but Derek's sitting next to him, one hand resting in Stiles' hair, eyes fixed on whatever Stiles is looking at. </p>
<p>It comforts Peter to see his mate and beta so close; knowing that Derek's submitting to his instincts and that Stiles accepts that says more about their pack in one snapshot than words ever could. The wolf inside of him purrs a little, curling up and huffing as it closes its eyes. </p>
<p>"Something like that," Peter says. "What if we buy those half-size shelves and put them under the window? We could put the plants on top of those and repurpose the plant stands for something else." </p>
<p>"The books are warded," Stiles says, thoughtfully. "Yeah, that'd be fine." </p>
<p>Derek looks over his shoulder at Peter, says, "You should come look at this." </p>
<p>The scent around Stiles changes, hints of nervousness and trepidation spoiling the normal top-layer of cotton and tobacco with the unpleasant tang of burnt nettles. Peter waits for a sign from Stiles that it's all right; once Stiles nods, no matter how reluctant it looks, Peter crosses the room and kneels down on the other side of Stiles from Derek. He looks at the computer screen, sees a grid of saved house listings. They all look big, that's the first thing Peter notices, prices high but reasonable for the size of the home and accompanying land. </p>
<p>"Show him the other one," Derek murmurs. </p>
<p>Stiles looks at Derek, then sighs, taps over to a different tab. Peter's not exactly sure what he's looking at, but then the lines and angles start to make sense. He leans in closer, studies the layout, and asks, "Where's this house, Stiles?" </p>
<p>"It's the blueprints for a place up in New Hampshire," Stiles says. "You can see they've built it here --" and he points at the top layout, "-- to back up into the mountains; they had a wine cellar built right into the rock. Obviously we'd have to change that, but --. I dunno, I just -- I saw the place last summer and it seemed nice." </p>
<p>"The porch only goes along the front," Peter says, eyes narrowing. "We'd have to change that to a wrap-around. Maybe add a third floor; if we take the office and the bedroom out of the first floor, we could double the size of the kitchen." </p>
<p>Derek scrolls down, points out the sketch for the basement. "It'd be a different size, but if the spaces were aligned the right way, it could connect to the tunnels to the vault and the safehouse without too much trouble." </p>
<p>Peter meets Derek's eyes over Stiles' back, takes in a deep breath. "You'd want to build there?" </p>
<p>Derek looks away, eyes flicking back to the architectural designs Stiles still has his focus fixed on. "It might be time," Derek says. "It -- if we don't, it's saying she won. Isn't it?" </p>
<p>"I know this isn't --," Stiles starts, stops. "There's a lot of power in blood," he says gently. "Even more in life and death. That would be the centre of your power as alpha, Peter, and we could tie the -- I mean, it would add strength to the wards. It would feel -- not like home, but -- close. And -- the land there knows fire, now. It would know how to protect itself against it." </p>
<p>Peter's not sure how he feels about the idea of building a new pack house right on the ruins of the old one. Some part of him thinks they'd be tempting fate, doing that, and that they'll end up haunted by ghosts and memories. On the other hand, if Stiles is right that the land itself would rise up to protect them, can they really afford to <i>not</i> build there?" </p>
<p>Derek makes a noise in the back of his throat, wolf reacting to the smell of Peter's indecision. </p>
<p>"What if it's not in the same exact place?" Stiles suggests, the light coming out of him dying down a little, until it's barely there. "We did say we wanted a garden. We could always build the house further back into the preserve, or a little to the east. There's a small clearing that we could expand without having to cut down too many trees." </p>
<p>"I'll think about it," Peter finally says. "There's a lot to consider. I'd need to find an architect, for one thing, and get these plans printed out and see if the changes we want to make would be feasible."</p>
<p>Peter smells blood in the air; he looks at Derek, who hasn't really moved, then down at Stiles. Peter opens his mouth to let in the full scent of blood and tastes Stiles in the back of his throat. He starts to move, to ask Stiles what's wrong, but Stiles is already pushing himself up, shutting the laptop with more force than required, scent going closed-off and full of nothing but the lightning storm that's been growing slow and steady since the sheriff's station, gathering heat and power and breadth. </p>
<p>"Sorry," Stiles says. "I shouldn't have pushed." Stiles gets up, shoulders a little higher than normal, and before Peter can do more than reach out to him, Stiles says, "I think I'm gonna take a shower before dinner. Let me know when the food gets here?" </p>
<p>He's gone up the stairs before Peter can stop him, and Peter growls under his breath at the way Stiles ceded the argument and just <i>left</i>. It's ridiculously out of character for the Stiles that Peter's grown to know over the last week, doesn't speak to anything of the Spark, and Peter <i>hates</i> it. He gets up, runs one hand through Derek's hair to let Derek know that Peter's not mad at him, then follows Stiles upstairs. </p>
<p>Stiles is in the bedroom, pulling out a pair of Peter's pyjamas from the dresser. He stops mid-action when he hears Peter at the door, stiffens and doesn't turn to look at Peter. "Sorry," he says, again. "I was wrong to --" </p>
<p>"You were wrong to leave," Peter says, cutting Stiles off. His eyes trace the planes of Stiles' back, the tension in his shoulders and neck and arms. The Spark's light is hidden away and Peter doesn't know what he did wrong but he'll never do it again. "That's all you have to apologise for. But <i>why</i> did you leave, Stiles?" </p>
<p>"I'm -- pressing," Stiles says. He turns around and Peter glances at Stiles' split lip before looking up, catching Stiles' gaze for a second before Stiles looks away, over to the side, flush crawling up his cheeks and down his throat. "I was wrong to bring it up. It's not -- there's time, and I was insensitive, and I --." </p>
<p>He stops and Peter rolls his eyes, closes the distance between them and wraps Stiles up in his arms. At first, Stiles is stiff in his hold, all rigid and distant, but it doesn't take long before he melts a little, going soft and warm as his scent flourishes, hints of sun-softened caramel relief filtering through. "I don't think," Peter says, carefully, guessing at what Stiles <i>really</i> thinks Peter took away from the conversation downstairs, "that you're pressing for a new house because you've just lost your old one. You've had those blueprints for almost a year, Stiles, which means that it's something you've wanted for a while now. If I'm going to be upset about anything, it's the fact that it took this long to share that with me." </p>
<p>Stiles opens his mouth to protest; Peter puts a finger over his lips. Stiles makes a mock-growling sound and licks Peter's finger, but he does give Peter an expectant look. </p>
<p>"You said it would feel like home, if we rebuilt over the old site." Peter takes a deep breath, lets it out and wishes he could expel old ghosts and old hurts at the same time, with the same ease. "But that house never felt like home to me, not really. When I was a child, perhaps, but --. I don't know how I'd feel living in a house where the wards are tied to people who barely tolerated me." </p>
<p>Stiles raises an eyebrow and Peter nods. "First of all," Stiles says, "like I said, it doesn't have to be the same place. But if it is, you wouldn't be living with their ghosts. I didn't --," and he stops there, makes a gesture with his fingers toward the door. Peter doesn't see anything happen but he can feel it, the heat of a full summer sun leaves Stiles' hands and spreads out over the walls, the doorway, the windows. When he blinks, Peter can see afterimages of a thousand burning stars pulsing at two separate speeds in the corners of his vision. </p>
<p>Sometimes the power that Stiles contains and doesn't even think twice about makes Peter want to get on his knees in awe. </p>
<p>"Derek doesn't like talking about it, hearing about it," Stiles says, "so I didn't want to go into it in front of him. But the power we could harness from a wolf's death, from Talia's death, is not something to ignore. The alpha spark may have travelled on but the <i>wolf</i> sparks haven't. The flesh and blood of your pack is soaked into the land and that's magic, Peter, <i>potent</i> magic. You wouldn't feel <i>them</i>, you'd feel all the power of the entire Hale lineage that's lived and died on the land. Home was maybe the wrong word to use. Maybe history would be better, or ancestry, or -- or the rightness of feeling a sense of belonging that comes with time." </p>
<p>That does make Peter feel better about the idea, but he's still hesitant. Knowing he wouldn't feel his old pack helps, but he'd still be on the same plot of land, still be seeing the same trees, the same ground, the same sky overhead during full moons. </p>
<p>"I'll consider it," Peter says. "I can't promise more than that right now. But the house, the blueprints -- I like those. Let me find an architect, see if it's even possible to put the house we want on that piece of land; for all we know, it might not be and then the entire discussion becomes pointless."</p>
<p>"Fair enough," Stiles says. "You -- you really like it? You're not just saying that to make me happy?" </p>
<p>Peter laughs, rubs his nose against Stiles'. "I really do," he says. "It'll be easier to start with a base idea of what we want, too, and make changes to that, rather than start from scratch. The design time will be shorter, which means a faster move-in date. I'm greedy enough to want you in a house that's ours as soon as possible." </p>
<p>Stiles smiles at that, the glow around his body coming back. While Stiles doesn't bother hiding his scent most of the time, seeing the glow gives Peter another idea of how his mate's feeling at any given time; he needs every edge he can get, with Stiles. "You just wanna go shopping," Stiles says. "All new furniture and fabric. But remember, alpha: you'll have Lydia to contend with." </p>
<p>Lydia has uncommonly good taste for a person of her age. It won't be a hardship to have her assist in decorating a new home. Stiles must read that off of Peter's face because he groans, mutters something about 'now there being two of them' under his breath. He makes to twist out of Peter's hold but Peter doesn't let go. Instead, Peter asks, "Explain what you did to the walls?" </p>
<p>"What I did to the -- oh, that," Stiles says, like he's wondering why Peter's even questioning something so insignificant. "Silencing wards. They're attuned to our heartbeats, though, so Derek can still hear those, just not what we're talking about. I figured erasing everything might upset him, but this way he still knows we're up here and not upset or anything." </p>
<p>Peter looks up at the ceiling, praying for patience. Most rune mages take <i>weeks</i> to set up personalised wards of that nature; from what Peter knows, each individual has to have an identifying rune, the arrays have to be timed to certain seasons or moon cycles, carving into walls has to be done with specialised tools. Blood mages can set up similar wards in about half that time but they do require pints of blood soaked into a building's materials before the building is constructed. Deaton set up the most basic wards possible -- wards that failed and did <i>nothing</i> to protect them -- on the old pack house and territory and it took him a full <i>year</i>. </p>
<p>And Stiles just -- 'oh, that,' he said, as if it was nothing.</p>
<p>"Explain why every time you do magic, it feels like the sun," Peter says. "Here, with the cats, in Dallas -- it was all light, heat."</p>
<p>"I'm a Spark," Stiles says, shrugging. "That's what we are: lights in the darkness. When we ignite, we become the light in the world." </p>
<p>Peter narrows his eyes. "That sounds awfully biblical," he says. </p>
<p>Stiles grins, says, "I'm gonna leave the wards up, I think." He presses a kiss to Peter's lips, tugs at Peter's bottom lip with his teeth as he pulls back, and says, "Food's here," before spinning out of Peter's hold with a laugh and racing downstairs. </p>
<p>Mentally, Peter throws his hands up and gives up. Physically, he shakes his head and follows Stiles down the steps, just as there's a knock at the front door. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Stiles starts eating slowly but Peter's gratified to see that his mate's appetite comes back as soon as Stiles gets through one stick of satay. Derek eats steadily, Peter does as well, but Stiles races through his soup, half the satay, and a few spoonfuls of rice before he leans back from the table and laces his hands over his stomach, groaning. </p>
<p>"I'm gonna end up so fat," he says. "Ugh. Peter, you're not supposed to let me eat that much." </p>
<p>"You only had toast for breakfast," Peter says, "and hardly anything for lunch. You're not going to get fat by indulging in one meal -- which was mostly protein and broth, I'll hasten to point out." </p>
<p>What he's not going to add is that Stiles could really do to put on twenty pounds; he looks healthier now that he's anchored to his body but he's still not completely recovered. The jut of his hips is a little too sharp for Peter's taste, and the hollows under Stiles' eyes are healing but not fast enough. Picking Stiles up earlier just reinforced the wolf's desperate desire to stuff their mate full of rich, calorie-laden foods; Stiles is far too light for his age and height. </p>
<p>Stiles gives him a look, though, that says he knows <i>exactly</i> what Peter's thinking. Peter makes a face, says, "Go on, then, go shower," and kicks one leg of Stiles' chair. </p>
<p>Stiles flails but catches himself, scowls at Peter as he stands up. "You're so mean," he says. "Just -- an absolutely awful person who has no respect whatsoever for -- mmph!" </p>
<p>Peter kisses the words right out of Stiles' mouth, doesn't stop until he can feel the moment when Stiles starts smiling and then backs off to see his mate's eyes closed, one of those stupidly fond grins on his lips. "What was that, Stiles?" </p>
<p>"I forgot," Stiles says. He opens his eyes, Spark-white settling easily on Peter's face. "I think it was something about how great you are?" </p>
<p>"That's what I thought," Peter says. </p>
<p>Stiles leans forward, presses one more small, quick kiss to Peter's lips. "I'm only going because the sooner I shower, the sooner we get to go to bed," he says. "Not 'cause you told me to. Just want to make that clear." </p>
<p>Peter makes a show of nodding, says, "Oh, of course, absolutely." </p>
<p>With a laugh, Stiles goes upstairs, blowing a kiss at Peter over his shoulder before he disappears out of sight. </p>
<p>"You're good together," Derek says. </p>
<p>"You sound surprised," Peter says, cocking his head in question. He feels a little stung at Derek's surprise, to be honest. </p>
<p>Derek picks at the rice left on his plate. "You're a -- I never thought that someone would fit you as well as he does. No one here -- before, I mean -- ever caught your attention the way that Stiles has from the first moment you saw him." Derek snorts, adds, "Of course it would take a <i>Spark</i>." </p>
<p>That eases Peter's hurt a little, but not entirely. Derek's not wrong, per se; no one caught Peter's interest before the fire, not for very long, anyway, and definitely not in a way that interested both Peter <i>and</i> the wolf inside of him. He's right, too, that Peter was enraptured by Stiles the first time he scented him, out in the preserve, and that his fascination only deepened when Stiles stood up to him in the high school, then the hospital. </p>
<p>"I just mean that you're complicated," Derek says. He meets Peter's eyes and his scent blossoms with apology and frustration both. "That it was always going to take someone as complicated as you to keep your interest, someone fierce and caring and smart and violent and -- devoted, I guess. I never thought there'd be someone who fit that. Even when I first met Stiles, I didn't think he was like that. To some extent, but not -- but then he turned out to be a Spark, and -- of course it takes someone that -- y'know, to be someone who -- sorry," he says. </p>
<p>There are very few things Peter regrets in his life but the way that Paige Krasikeva died is one of them. Before Paige died, Derek was confident, better with words, comfortable with expressing himself, so much more willing to shove his way and his opinions into any conversation. He became a shell of himself, though, once he realised his eyes had changed from gold to blue, which made him the perfect target for Kate Argent, which ended their family. </p>
<p>Ever since he came back from the dead, his mind renewed and his sanity restored, Peter's blamed himself for instigating the whole thing; perhaps, if he wasn't so adamant that Paige needed to be brought into their world, the pack would still be alive. Of course, then he'd still be living under Talia's rule and very unlikely to have been as perfect for Stiles as Stiles is for him -- and if he thinks of it that way, well. Anything would be worth it for Peter to have Stiles as his mate, even blue eyes on his nephew and a dead family.</p>
<p>"No need to apologise," Peter finally says. He starts clearing off the empty take-out cartons, but Derek stands up, puts one hand on Peter's arm. </p>
<p>"Let me," Derek says. </p>
<p>Peter nods, steps back, says, "Thank you," and squeezes the back of Derek's neck as a way to say that he's not angry, that he holds no resentment. </p>
<p>Derek tilts his head forward, scent calming even as his pulse does, and Peter lets him go with one pat to Derek's shoulder. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>While Stiles is in the shower and Derek's cleaning up after dinner, Peter empties the dryer. He folds the laundry, gets the sheets out of the dryer, and makes the bed. He puts Stiles' pillow in a row with the others, right in the middle, and finds a light blanket; he and Derek won't need one and their body heat will do most of the work of keeping Stiles warm. By the time the bed's ready and Peter's changed into sleep pants and a plain t-shirt, Derek's finishing up downstairs. Peter tells him that his pyjamas are on top of the dryer and Derek slips into the bathroom as Stiles comes out, yawning as he scratches his stomach. Peter's eyes flash alpha-red -- Stiles is wearing his clothes, smells like he used Peter's shampoo and body wash and the same towel Peter dried off with that morning. </p>
<p>"Figured you wouldn't mind," Stiles says. He brushes past Peter, kissing Peter's cheek on his way, and then practically throws himself onto the bed, wriggling under the blanket and shifting his pillow this way and that to get comfortable. </p>
<p>Peter watches the sway of his mate's hips with no small amount of want, but Stiles yawns again once he's settled and he smells exhausted. They've had several heavy conversations today and while it seems that Stiles has bounced back from what happened with his father earlier, Peter knows it has to be weighing on his mind. </p>
<p>"Long day," Peter eventually says. </p>
<p>"Super long," Stiles replies, closing his eyes and stretching one last time before going liquid as he lays there. "I am <i>so</i> ready to be the Spark in the middle of a werewolf sandwich. Or -- no, wait. The Spark filling in a werewolf sandwich? But no one names the sandwich after the bread, so -- a Spark sandwich? No, that sounds weird." </p>
<p>Derek, leaning against the doorway, says, "<i>You</i> sound weird. Are you sure the green things in that soup were lemongrass?" </p>
<p>Stiles opens one eye, pats the bed. "I always sound weird," he says, lopsided grin on his face. "Means no one really pays attention to me. Come on, I'm tired." </p>
<p>Derek stands up straight, shifts, looks at Peter. Peter tilts his head in the bed's direction and Derek slinks inside like he's trying to hide how much he wants to and is, instead, reluctantly following orders. Peter smiles, just a little, and waits for Derek to slide onto the bed on Stiles' right before he does the same on Stiles' left.</p>
<p>Stiles pokes and prods Derek until Derek's laying mostly on his back, tilted just a little toward Stiles, then Stiles almost falls on top of him, ends up curling so that his ear's resting on the skin above Derek's heart, one leg thrown over both of Derek's. Peter spoons Stiles from behind, and Derek ends up moving one arm to wrap around Stiles, fingertips pressed to Peter's arm. </p>
<p>"Mmm, perfect," Stiles murmurs, already half asleep. "Alpha, make a note. We need a room. Big mattress. Pack snuggles. Snug as a wolf and a Stiles and a wolf in a sandwich." </p>
<p>Peter bites back the urge to laugh. "Noted," he says. "Go to sleep." </p>
<p>Stiles mutters, "Tyrant," but his scent shifts and his body loosens not more than three minutes later, content and boneless in sleep. </p>
<p>"Pack snuggles?" Derek murmurs. He tilts his head to the side, meets Peter's eyes, and says, "<i>Ridiculous</i>," with so much feeling that this time Peter can't resist, buries his laughter in Stiles' hair and prays he doesn't wake Stiles up.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lydia knocks on the door promptly at six on Monday morning. The high school's first class doesn't start until seven thirty but Stiles set the alarm for five thirty last night; Peter had wondered why and Stiles had said, without any attempt at looking pleased, that Lydia would want to stop for breakfast first. Apparently it's a tradition they have, though Stiles didn't tell Peter what the conditions were -- if it's a Monday morning tradition or something they do when someone's missed a lot of school, or even something they do only after major supernatural events. Peter had wanted to ask, but didn't, just begrudgingly rolled out of bed this morning a few minutes after Stiles. </p>
<p>Peter, still only half-awake and nursing his first cup of coffee, raises an eyebrow when he opens the front door and invites Lydia inside. He takes in her outfit, her perfect makeup, the elaborate braided updo her hair's in, all pinned and curled with nary a strand out of place. He considers the look as he steps to the side and finally asks, "Just who are we planning on battling today?" </p>
<p>One corner of her mouth quirks up and Lydia leans in, scents Peter by running her nose across his jaw and down the side of his throat. "Clever alpha," she says. "But I expected nothing less. Where's Stiles?" </p>
<p>"Right here," Stiles answers, coming out of the kitchen with two travel mugs in one hand, his backpack trailing from the other. He blinks when he sees Lydia, though where Peter's eyes had focused on her makeup and hair, Stiles glances down at her shoes. "Uh oh," he says. Peter follows his gaze, feels the slightest squirm of intimidation run through him at the sight of those heels. No one, especially a teenager, should look as comfortable standing on those as Lydia does. "You only wear the red ones when you're trying to make a point, and by 'trying to make a point,' I mean 'planning on digging the heel into some poor, unfortunate soul's testicles.'" </p>
<p>"Glenn Delaney," Lydia says, smelling of fond remembrance and wicked amusement at the same time. "Good times." </p>
<p>Stiles winces. "Maybe for you," he says. "Definitely not for Glenn." </p>
<p>Lydia laughs, accepts one of the travel mugs when Stiles offers it to her, and she takes him in with a raised eyebrow. "That's not your shirt," she says. "I assume it also doesn't <i>smell</i> like yours?" </p>
<p>"We all have our weapons," Stiles says. He looks at Peter, then, reluctance inked through his scent and clear on his face. "I'll see you after school?" </p>
<p>"Derek's already volunteered the use of his loft," Peter says, curving a hand around Stiles' waist and pulling him close enough to rub his nose against Stiles' temple. "Take them there; I don't want them knowing where I live without being pack." </p>
<p>Stiles agrees, kisses Peter once, says, "Miss you already," and leaves with Lydia. </p>
<p>"Weirdly adorable," Lydia's saying, as the door closes behind her and Stiles. "But fitting." </p>
<p>"Aw, thanks, Lyds," Stiles says, and then there's the sound of car doors and an engine, carrying them away. </p>
<p>The wolf inside of Peter growls, starts to pace, as he fights back the urge to run after Stiles. Separating isn't meant to be this difficult but they are still early on in their mating, Peter supposes, and their bond is tighter than most he's heard of. Stiles has been ill, as well; he'll never get the image of Stiles vomiting up part of his body on the side of the interstate out of his mind. Letting Stiles go, especially to a place where they have -- if not enemies, then at least not an overabundance of allies, and doubly especially after the day Stiles had yesterday, doesn't sit well with Peter at all. His wolf is stronger, too, than most; carrying so many different alpha sparks makes the wolf more powerful than the average, but more volatile as well, so it's not entirely out of the question that <i>everything</i> is, as a result, stronger. Hopefully this need for Stiles settles, though, because if Peter's going to feel this adrift every time Stiles leaves his sight or the den, then -- well. He's never been accused of codependency before, he'd hate to be labelled like that now. </p>
<p>Peter busies himself in the kitchen, makes omelets loaded with tomatoes and spinach and sausage, puts some bread in the toaster and refills his mug with the last of the coffee, setting a fresh pot on to brew. He hears Derek start to move around, get out of bed and head over to the bathroom, and by the time Derek's padding down the steps and into the kitchen, hair all matted up and scratching his belly, pillow creases still impressed on one side of his face, Peter's got a plate waiting for him at the counter. </p>
<p>Derek's about as much of a morning person as Peter is -- which is to say, not at all -- so Peter's not offended when Derek merely grunts in his direction and starts eating, one hand wrapped around his plate as he hunches over and shovels food into his mouth. Something about that defensive posture sets off all kinds of alarms in the back of Peter's mind but he's not awake enough to figure out why, so he just tables the question for now and makes a mental note to come back to it later. </p>
<p>When Derek's done eating and mostly awake, he rests his chin in his hand, elbow on the counter, slouching a little bit. "Plans for today?" he asks. </p>
<p>Peter makes a face. "Most of what I need to do requires Stiles," he admits. "I'd like to drop by the vault to look for some books, go visit the nemeton, check the wards around the territory -- but Stiles should be involved in all of those things." Derek's expression and scent turn questioning; Peter lets out a breath and says, "He said he placed wards up around the territory when he ignited but both of us want him to increase their strength. I'd like to take him with me while I run the borders so he can tell me how he anchored the wards and where <i>he</i> thinks the boundaries of our territory lie. If the pack's going to heal the nemeton, that's going to be something Stiles needs to lead, I think. More importantly," he says, lips quirked up in a smile, "I don't know if I'd be able to find the nemeton without him. And I'd like to show him the vault. We might have some of the same books, too, and I don't want to double up on those unnecessarily." </p>
<p>"So what <i>can</i> you do today while he's at school?" Derek asks. Peter can see him biting back a smile as he adds, "You're not just going to curl up in bed and mourn until he gets back, are you?" </p>
<p>"Brat," Peter mutters, affectionately. It's always good to see a hint of Derek's sarcasm and sass; the faster that aspect of his personality heals, the better, as far as Peter's concerned. He's always appreciated the snarky ones. "There are a couple phone calls I need to make. I wanted to ask -- Cora," he says, and sees the humour disappear from Derek's face. "She wouldn't want to hear from me. At least, I don't think she would. How would you feel about calling her? Not necessarily to ask her to come back," Peter's quick to say, "but to update her. Let her know she has the option if she wants it -- permanently or just to visit." </p>
<p>Derek makes a face, somewhere between a hopeful look and a grimace. "She was very clear that she wanted nothing to do with Beacon Hills," he says. "When she left, she said she was never going to come back. That the territory's cursed."</p>
<p>Peter takes a sip of his coffee. All the best machinery, the most expensive beans, and it still doesn't taste as good as the Drip House's. He might have to break down and buy a Moka pot. </p>
<p>"You'd have to call to let her know it's going to be a while before you visit, though," Peter half-asks. </p>
<p>"I won't leave until things here are settled," Derek says. "Scott, whatever's going on with the sheriff and Stiles, the nemeton. So, yeah, I need to call and tell her it might not be for a few months. But -- I don't want to tell her about Stiles," Derek says, mulish expression on his face. "And without knowing about Stiles, the odds of her chancing a return trip on a Hale alpha are slim." </p>
<p>Peter tilts his head, debates the wisdom of asking but does so anyway. "Why don't you want to tell her about Stiles? Knowing that we have a Spark might tip the scales in favour of her coming back." </p>
<p>Derek exhales, long and deep. "Cora's -- you've mentioned pack law a lot the past couple days. Cora knows it. She was raised by a pack who taught her. If they're <i>her</i> pack, which I think they are, based on things she's said, things she did, then she'd have to tell them we have a Spark. Telling them that you're an alpha again, that's iffy enough until we get the territory under control, but telling them about Stiles?" Derek shakes his head. "I wouldn't want to do that until Stiles says it's okay and we have the strength to protect him." </p>
<p>"He doesn't need us to protect him," Peter points out. "In any confrontation with another pack, we'd be depending on him to protect <i>us</i>." </p>
<p>"Would we?" Derek asks. "I mean -- think about it, Peter. You don't know his law. You said Stiles thinks free will is important. And he's been a Spark since before you resurrected. Anything that happened after that, he could have stopped. He didn't. Why would we expect that to change just because we know what he is?" </p>
<p>Peter considers that; Derek makes a valid point, after all. Stiles didn't kill Gerard Argent, he didn't do anything about Whittemore, he didn't stop the alpha pack or the darach, he didn't fight when the nogitsune possessed him and then he actually <i>invited</i> the fox inside. </p>
<p>"There's one difference," Peter eventually says. "He's pack now. He wasn't before." A tinge of shame stains Derek's scent. "It's not your fault," Peter tells Derek, sharpness in his tone. Derek looks up at him, the scent of skepticism flooding outwards. "You were doing your best. Stiles is very good at pretending; you thought he was on McCall's side and he did nothing to change that impression. The wolf would never allow you to create pack bonds with someone you didn't trust, and, sure, Stiles <i>helped</i>, sometimes, even saved your life once or twice, but he did nothing to make you believe he would choose the pack, choose <i>you</i>, over McCall."</p>
<p>"I don't think I'll ever understand him," Derek says. </p>
<p>Peter gives his nephew a tired, exasperated look. "You're not alone." </p>
<p>Derek snorts, says, "Okay, then. I'll ask Stiles what I'm allowed to tell Cora. But until then, what are you going to do with the rest of your day? And -- is there anything on your list I can help with?" </p>
<p>"Phone calls," Peter says. "Amanda said something yesterday that I need to follow up on, and I want to start the process to find an architect. I'd also like to go and pick up a couple bookshelves, put them together, so Stiles can start unpacking." </p>
<p>"You just want to see what books he has," Derek says. </p>
<p>Peter laughs, says, "Guilty. What I saw when we were packing them up -- I wish I knew where he got all of them from but he's being unusually tight-lipped about his sources." He pauses, considers the wisdom of what he's about to ask, but then just decides -- to hell with it. "Would you take Stiles' Jeep to one of the shops in town and see if they'll give you an estimate to rebuild the engine? It needs doing and I already mentioned it to Stiles, so he won't be taken by surprise if he finds out he'll be car-less for a few weeks." </p>
<p>Derek shifts on the stool, says, "I could take a look." </p>
<p>Peter raises an eyebrow. The nephew he knew from before the fire was a jock, not a grease monkey; Derek never showed any interest in cars when he was younger. That was years ago, though, and now that Peter thinks about it, the Camaro <i>is</i> in excellent shape.</p>
<p>"In New York -- mechanics were always looking for help," Derek says, answering the question written in Peter's scent. "They paid under the table so if Laura and I needed to run, there wasn't any paperwork linking us back, and they all knew each other so I bounced around to whoever needed me the most. I don't have a license or anything, but I can handle myself under the hood of just about anything."</p>
<p>"Do you enjoy it?" Peter asks. </p>
<p>Derek shrugs one shoulder. "Yeah," he says. "I guess. It's quiet and there's no people and -- engines make sense to me. After the -- lots of other things didn't. Still don't, sometimes." </p>
<p>Peter holds Derek's gaze for a moment longer, then nods towards the key rack at the front door. "Knock yourself out," he says. "Let me know what you think. Oh, see if you can figure out why it --" </p>
<p>"-- grinds in second," Derek says, hint of a smile on his face as he finishes Peter's sentence. "It sounds like a worn blocker ring; he'd need a new transmission to fix that. But I'll check the clutch, too, just in case."  </p>
<p>Against his will, Peter's impressed. He can tell the instant Derek scents that; Derek's shoulders straighten out, he lifts his head a little, the bond strung between them twangs with pleasure at the alpha's approval. Peter nods and Derek leaves, grabbing Stiles' keys as he goes. </p>
<p>Peter waits until Derek's outside and focused on the Jeep before he picks up his phone, Googles the number he wants, and presses the icon on the search result page. </p>
<p>"<i>Beacon County Courthouse</i>," a perky voice says. "<i>This is Denise. How may I direct your call</i>?" </p>
<p>"<i>I'd like to speak to Linda, in the records department, if she's in</i>," Peter says. </p>
<p>Denise hums, says, "<i>Lucky for you, I think she is! One moment while I transfer you</i>."</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Derek comes back in about an hour later, wiping his hands off on an old rag. Peter tilts his head at the kitchen sink, where there's a full bottle of Ajax waiting along with a small pot of sugar scrub. Derek raises an eyebrow when he sees it but doesn't say anything, just turns on the tap with his forearm while he untwists the cap to the sugar scrub. </p>
<p>"What's the diagnosis?" Peter asks. </p>
<p>"For a 1980, it's in surprisingly good shape," Derek says. "But there's so much duct tape over everything." He glances over his shoulder, adds, "Duct tape that should not be working the way it's working." </p>
<p>Peter considers that. The Jeep belonged to Stiles' mother, he knows that, and knows that Stiles clings to it for that reason. He wonders if that clinging has been knowingly augmented by magic or if Stiles has just unconsciously poured so much of himself into keeping it running that the duct tape's acting like some kind of magical fix-it. </p>
<p>Derek, turned back the sink and focused on scrubbing off his hands, adds, "I'd guess we could make it highway-ready for about five grand, maybe seven if you want to add some bells and whistles. Sourcing the parts for something that old is going to be the biggest problem but I think it's doable." He rinses off the container of sugar scrub, then turns the water off and starts to dry his hands using the towel Peter left out for him. Derek turns around, leans against the sink, and offers, "It might take me a little longer than one of the mechanics in town but I could do it."</p>
<p>"Even with Stiles looking over your shoulder at every opportunity?" Peter asks. The faint hesitancy in Derek's scent gets washed away by amusement. "Because you know he's going to keep an eagle-eye on you while you're elbows deep in his precious Jeep's innards." </p>
<p>"Stiles is going to be too busy," Derek says, "but I don't mind." Peter raises an eyebrow and Derek tosses a grumpy little face in his direction. "You think everything's gonna get resolved in a week? Please. You want Stiles to increase the strength of his wards; that's going to take <i>months</i> of attention. And that's only one thing on the list." </p>
<p>Peter shakes his head. "It would take months of attention for a rune mage or a blood warder. For a Spark? Stiles warded the bedroom last night by flicking his fingers -- kept all sound out while we talked but let our heartbeats through so you could hear those. Just, poof," Peter says, mimicking with one hand the little gesture Stiles made the night before. "No prior wards, no priming, nothing." </p>
<p>Derek's eyes go wide at the thought, and he breathes out, "Oh, <i>fuck</i>." </p>
<p>"Yeah," Peter says, dryly. "Oh, fuck. So while I don't think we're going to be done with everything in a week, it's going to go much, much faster than it normally would." </p>
<p>"Why is he staying <i>here</i>?" Derek asks, still looks stunned at the idea of what Stiles might be capable of doing, creating, achieving. Peter can't blame him; he has a mating bond to the Spark and he's still coming to terms with the power Stiles possesses. "Christ, he could go anywhere, do anything -- and he's staying in <i>Beacon Hills</i>? He doesn't want more?" </p>
<p>Peter would growl at the thought that he's not good enough for Stiles, that his territory isn't good enough, but he completely agrees with his nephew. Stiles might consider Beacon Hills home, might never want to leave, but he is so much better than this town deserves and no matter how much Stiles resists the idea, Peter wants him to indulge in the Spark, to wield it and give his magic its full expression. He thought in the car, thought yesterday, that Stiles staying here is a waste and he still believes that -- though only when Stiles isn't around to read the thought off of his face. Peter will accept Stiles' wishes and even thinks that maybe someday he'll understand them, but right now? Right now he's more on Derek's side. </p>
<p>"He says he doesn't want to rule," Peter says. "Says that he already does, in everything but name, and he'd rather leave everything in place as it is, to change when it needs changing. I don't -- Derek, I'll admit it, I don't <i>get it</i>. He doesn't want to leave Beacon Hills but he could still make this the seat of his power. He just doesn't want to. He wants to -- he wants to be a glorified house-husband, from what he's said, and I -- I don't know. Like I said, I just don't get it." Peter shrugs. "But it's what he wants, so unless he changes his mind, that's what he's doing. He's going to stay here as my emissary alpha-mate and -- figure everything else out as he goes along." </p>
<p>"College?" Derek asks. </p>
<p>Peter's not sure what how his scent changes, what chemosignals he's giving off, but Derek tilts his head to the side, showing off his neck, as his eyes close and his hands hang loose at his sides. </p>
<p>"Sorry," Peter says, and wrangles himself back under control, tucks the eyes away and comforts the wolf and slows his heart rate back down to normal. "We talked about it yesterday; I found some things he said -- upsetting, to say the least. Suffice to say that he's still making his mind up about that. Online, perhaps, eventually, or a few classes at the community college here in town." </p>
<p>"Fair enough," Derek says. "Maybe -- I could show him a few things while I'm working on the Jeep? He always likes having something to do with his hands and he's clever enough; he might find it interesting enough to pass the time. Plus, y'know, having him around is like free entertainment when he's in the right mood. Better than a radio, at any rate." </p>
<p>Peter snorts, says, "Don't come complaining to me the first time Stiles gets grease up his nose," but he thinks it might be a good idea for more than one reason. It'll keep Stiles busy, that's guaranteed, and give Stiles and Derek a chance to spend time together without having a threat to their lives snapping at their heels. Anything that binds the pack tighter is good, as is the thought of Derek developing a deeper sense of comfort in Stiles' company. Also -- Derek's not wrong. Stiles likes having something to do and he's intelligent enough to have kept the Jeep running, even if he was using magic and rolls of duct tape to do it. "I don't think the housing association would approve of taking a vehicle apart in their parking lot -- do you have room at the loft? And would you be willing to work there? It would be safe?" </p>
<p>Derek's nodding before Peter even finishes his second question. "Plenty of room." he says, "and easy to lock up. Plus, there are a couple auto parts stores over on that side of town that stay open late and if I fuck up, it'd be a shorter tow to the mechanic I like." He looks down, crosses one arm over his chest, that hand gripping his other elbow. "You'd -- you trust me with that? Your mate's car?" </p>
<p>"Yes," Peter says, no hesitation. "And if you find out there's more wrong with it than you thought, or if <i>you</i> aren't comfortable with the work, I'll pay someone else to do it. Like you said, we can always get it towed somewhere else." </p>
<p>Derek looks up at him, almost shy, but he's smiling. </p>
<p>Peter can't help but return the smile. "Why don't you take the Jeep over there now, start searching for what you'll need? You said it could take a while to get the parts here; might as well start ordering what you can now. I have to run by the courthouse and I found some shelves I like in stock at Home Depot; I could meet you at the loft, pick up lunch on my way over if you want?" </p>
<p>"Burgers?" Derek asks. "I could really go for a burger. And -- the courthouse? This is about last night?" </p>
<p>"Someone is going to have the paperwork for both emancipation and a marriage license ready," Peter says. "You heard what the sheriff said last night. Stiles isn't going to change his mind and his father will realise that eventually. I'd rather have everything in place legally before he's knocking the door down with deputies at his back to rip Stiles away from us. Surprisingly, it seems there are other people in this town who agree with me and are willing to bend a few laws for the sake of Stiles' happiness. And yes to burgers. Any preference?" </p>
<p>Derek looks like he's going to push the issue of Stiles and the sheriff, ask for more information about that whole situation than what he saw last night and what Peter's just said, but instead, Derek says, "There's a place on my side of town; little hole-in-the-wall joint that's not much to look at but the meat's fresh and the burgers are huge. I don't know what it's called but it's a couple blocks down from the halfway house, by the bus depot. If you're in that general area, you'll be able to smell the grease."</p>
<p>Peter grins. "Sounds amazing." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>He sends Derek off with his credit card for internet shopping -- the burger joint only takes cash, according to Derek, and he's got a few twenties and a couple fifties in his wallet that should cover both lunch and the bookshelves -- and changes from his sweatpants to jeans, deciding it's still cool enough that the henley he's had on will be fine. </p>
<p>Peter gets a text on his way to the courthouse, one from Stiles that reads <i>Lydia's bringing me and Danny to the loft after school. Malia has tutoring tonight but wants to come tomorrow. Scott's been giving me weird looks -- think he's smelling you on the shirt. Hasn't said anything about it yet, though. Fingers crossed he gives it a few days</i>. </p>
<p>Pushing aside the yearning he feels to have his <i>daughter</i> tied to him with bonds of pack, of <i>choice</i>, and the concern he feels at the thought of Scott actually showing a modicum of patience, Peter thinks about the ramifications of Lydia and Stiles choosing to bring a human to the pack first. Danny isn't even aware of their world, Peter thinks, so he'll be getting his introduction and invitation at the same time. Peter can't help smiling at the very clear message that's going to send to everyone else, allies and enemies both. His pack's going to be such a <i>strong</i> thing, full of people who appreciate unspoken messages and the power of a unified front just as much as violence and hierarchy and <i>pack</i>. </p>
<p>He can't wait. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Peter parks in front of the courthouse and saunters inside, heading for the information desk. The woman sitting behind the desk widens her eyes when she sees him coming; Peter gives her a charming smile and watches as she gets flustered, scent tingling with panic, low-level attraction, the slightest sour-sweet tang of feminine arousal. </p>
<p>"Hi!" she says, voice squeaking, once Peter's close to the desk. He glances at her nametag -- Denise, the same woman he talked to on the phone. She's younger than he thought; if she chose to go to college, she hasn't been out for long. "Can I help you?" </p>
<p>"I'm looking for the records department," Peter says. "I have an appointment with Linda." </p>
<p>Twinned disappointment and realisation hits her expression. "You called earlier, right?" she asks. "I recognise your voice." </p>
<p>Peter smiles, says, "Guilty as charged. I have a few things to pick up; Linda said they'd be ready for me if I dropped by." </p>
<p>Denise does her best to hide her discouragement behind a bright smile. "Sure thing," she says. "Records is on the third floor. The elevators are right behind you." </p>
<p>"Thank you, Denise," Peter says. As he walks away, he hears her let out a breath, has to hide a smile when she mutters something <i>very</i> complimentary about his ass.</p>
<p>He doesn't have to wait long for an elevator to take him upstairs and the ride is quick. The entrance to the records department is right across from the bank of elevators and he walks inside, inhaling the scent of paper and ink and strong coffee. </p>
<p>"You must be Peter Hale." </p>
<p>Peter turns to the left, sees a woman standing behind the counter, arms crossed over her chest, eyes narrowed. She's older than Peter, is wearing jeans and what looks like a comfortable sweater, her hair pulled back in a loose bun with frizzing strands flying out here and there. The only thing she's missing from the picture-perfect image of a stern librarian is a pair of glasses. </p>
<p>"You must be Linda," Peter says in reply. </p>
<p>He's never actually met her before; he's heard of her, though, from both Rania and Amanda. Stiles, too, has made mention of her once or twice, but nothing that would make Peter think she'd be willing to do the kinds of things Amanda hinted at yesterday. </p>
<p>Linda tilts her head up. "Linda Macfie," she says, and she lifts up her left hand to display her wedding band even as Peter's eyes go red. "I married into the family," she says. "You'll be having words with my husband soon enough, I imagine." </p>
<p>If any kind of mediator chose Beacon County to move into, of <i>course</i> it would be someone from Clan Macfie. This goes a long way towards explaining Stiles' reticence yesterday in talking about the mediator and no doubt if Stiles had known Peter was going to approach Linda today, Stiles would've warned him. But still. </p>
<p>Of course, on the other side, if Stiles has managed to make an ally of a Macfie mediator -- not to mention his wife -- and the man is still willing to live in the territory once he knows Peter's in charge, then that will do them a <i>world</i> of good. They'll never need to see another Argent in their lives, and the Calaveras, who've been nipping at the edges of northern California for decades now, should be easily persuaded to back off as well.  </p>
<p>"Soon enough, I'm sure," Peter says, pushing down the shift. </p>
<p>Linda's gaze and stance haven't softened, though she does lose some tension when it appears that Peter isn't going to be jumping over the counter to maul her any time soon. "Stiles speaks highly of you," she says. "Though he said you were a beta." </p>
<p>Peter gives her an apologetic smile but doesn't lower his chin. "It's a recent development. Very few know; we'd like to stabilise our pack and the territory before making an announcement. I'm sure he'll be in touch with you and your husband to update you." </p>
<p>"Stiles has spent a lot of time down here," Linda says, abruptly changing the subject. "Running errands for his father, doing research. He's also spent a great deal of time with me and my husband. We think very highly of him." </p>
<p>"I'm glad he has allies," Peter says, cautious since he doesn't know where Linda's going with this. </p>
<p>She huffs, says, "We know he has magic, alpha, though he's never told us what flavour of spellworker he is. And while he's always sounded fond of you, while he's recently been growing excited by, and impatient with, your courting, I have to ask: you aren't doing this for his magic, are you? He has a soft heart and a dangerous sense of loyalty, and that boy deserves more than being strung along to be used as a pack's tool." </p>
<p>Peter's wolf lurches at the accusation and it's only by drawing on his bond to Stiles that Peter manages to calm himself. "I swear that I'm not using him," he says. He's proud of his bond to Stiles, fiercely proud that Stiles chose <i>him</i>, but talking about it to someone who isn't pack, to someone who would never understand, is grating, uncomfortable. Knowing that she's going to tell her husband of this also has him wary of the repercussions. Stiles might have confidence in the man but Peter's heard stories of the Macfie idea of mediation before; caution is very much warranted. "He's agreed to be my mate. Everything I am is his. I would do <i>anything</i> for him." </p>
<p>"And 'anything' is emancipation, is it?" she asks, though she has relaxed a little bit more. </p>
<p>"Last night, Stiles' father called me an animal and demanded that Stiles cease his interactions with me," Peter says, flatly. "When Stiles refused, the sheriff kicked him out of the house and told him he could only come back when he was ready to give me up. Knowing what you do of wolves and magic users and those who agree to mating bonds, do <i>you</i> think Stiles is going to change his mind?" </p>
<p>Linda lets out a hissed breath of air between her teeth. "I didn't realise it was that bad," she says. She bursts into a flurry of movement, saying, "I didn't -- yes, obviously we'll file something before the sheriff uses the law to pull Stiles away from you. How much time do you think he has?" as she leans down behind a different section of the counter, now facing the door, pulling out a plain, unmarked brown envelope. </p>
<p>She extends the envelope to Peter, who takes it with a bemused look on his face. Her question registers, then, and Peter says, "I'm not sure. Last night, he agreed that Stiles should leave for what he thinks is a few days, so -- until the end of the week, perhaps." </p>
<p>"There are magic users down in San Francisco who owe my husband a couple favours," she tells him. "We can get one of them to disguise the paperwork, get the sheriff to sign off on it. They stamp everything going in and out of that station; I credit Stiles for their organisation and it would work in our favour here. I have a copy of the sheriff's signature on file that we can use for the marriage license application, but emancipation -- he might try filing a restraining order or an order of custody, though we could get the case to the right judge and argue that Stiles is too old; maybe the marriage license is a better idea --." </p>
<p>She trails off, obviously very deeply in thought, and Peter clears his throat, breaking her out of her considerations. "Stiles will be able to disguise the forms," he says, "and he'll decide which one to pursue. It's good to know we might have a judge on our side, though." </p>
<p>Linda waves that away. "Judge Denton hates the sheriff and likes Stiles well enough; apparently there was an incident when his daughter was in middle school. I'm not sure what happened, exactly." She gives Peter a once-over, says, "Stiles told you what he is." Peter nods and her lips quirk, just for a split-second, into what might charitably be called a small smile. "Good. No secrets between partners; that's a good start to any marriage but I imagine it's something of a requirement when it comes to a mating. Get those forms back to me as soon as you can, with or without the sheriff's signature. We'll make it work, whatever you and Stiles decide. Oh, and be prepared for a call from my husband," she says. "Probably not until after the full moon, in deference to your pack settling -- unless we hear something that concerns us." </p>
<p>"Even with what you've no doubt already heard, you and your husband are <i>both</i> willing to give me until after the full moon?" Peter asks, raising one eyebrow. </p>
<p>"It's not a mindless choice," Linda says, something chastising in her tone that makes Peter's wolf bare fangs. "We've heard about you from Stiles but he's got quite the large blind spot when it comes to those he cares about. Once it was clear he was going to accept a mating with you, we asked around, got a few more opinions, and while we've heard -- things, we're willing to trust Stiles on this -- not in his love, but in his power over you as your mate. Knowing you're doing what you can to get him out from under the sheriff's thumb also helps. We're willing to pause judgment on the rest of it. For now." </p>
<p>Peter inclines his head. "Fair enough," he says. He lifts the envelope a little, says, "Thank you. I'll get one or both of these back to you as soon as possible." </p>
<p>The faintest hint of approval crosses her expression. "Well met, Alpha Hale." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Peter texts Stiles once he gets back in the car, a short thing that just says, <i>Macfie? Really?</i> and heads to Home Depot to pick up some bookshelves.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peter makes his way up to the loft with a bag of burgers, fries, and onion rings in one hand, drink carrier in his other hand, messenger bag slung over one shoulder. The door's open and he sees Derek sitting at the table, laptop open and scribbling something on a notepad. Peter shuts the door behind him and goes to the table; Derek sets his pen down and looks over his shoulder. He raises an eyebrow, asks, "How much food did you <i>buy</i>?" </p><p>"It smelled good," Peter says. He drops everything on the table and Derek closes his laptop and slides it and the notebook to the side. "How's it going?" </p><p>"Getting some of the parts might be a bigger problem than I thought," Derek admits, "but we'll make it work. How was your trip to the courthouse?" </p><p>Peter sits down, starts unpacking the bag of food. He slides two of the burgers over to Derek, then an order of fries as Derek gives Peter the Sprite and takes the Dr. Pepper for himself. "Well enough," Peter says, fishing out two straws from the bag and giving one to Derek. "Did you know that there's a Macfie mediator living in the territory?" </p><p>Derek pauses in the process of unwrapping the straw. "I take it that's supposed to mean something to me," he says, slow and careful. </p><p>Biting back a groan, Peter snags one of the onion rings. "Pack law's one thing, but I thought your mother would've at <i>least</i> -- yes. Yes, it's supposed to mean something to you." He shoves the onion ring in his mouth, bites down with more force than needed. There are days when he has no idea what Talia was thinking, raising wolves without telling them the most basic realities of the world they were born into. "Please tell me you at least know what mediators are?" </p><p>"Humans in the know who serve as neutral parties during alliance negotiations," Derek replies, once he's swallowed a large pull of Dr. Pepper. "Generally there to calm things down when they get heated or provide a fresh eye and new solutions when negotiations get bogged down. Emissaries are trained to serve that function and druids are specifically prepared for it." Derek makes a face, pushing his drink back and unwrapping one of the burgers. "Because they serve the balance, most people prefer to have druids as mediators when one's required. I would assume Deaton and Morrell are trained, since they're druids, though neither of them have ever acted like it. I've never heard of the -- Macfie, that's the name you used?"</p><p>"Mediators for centuries," Peter says. "It's a family tradition. They have a reputation, though. They've never left the negotiating table without a treaty or alliance but they're not all that squeamish about pushing the boundaries of <i>how</i> they've achieved peace. There's a famous story from the eighteenth century where the head of Clan Macfie was invited to hammer out a peace treaty between two packs that had been at war in southern England for decades. Apparently it ended with the two alphas and their emissaries near death. The alphas had been trapped in mountain ash circles that barely allowed them to move and their emissaries -- humans, both of them, neither of them possessing even a single drop of magic -- were unconscious. Had been for days, as the legend goes. No food, no water, no sleep. Who <i>wouldn't</i> agree to anything under those conditions?"</p><p>Derek frowns as he chews and swallows, as Peter starts to eat. He's hungrier than he thought he'd be; coming face-to-face with a Macfie, even one married into the family, would do that, he supposes. </p><p>"Not druids, then," Derek guesses. "Just mediators? And there's one living in the territory? For -- since when?" He gives his food a dark look, then turns that expression on Peter. "Should we be concerned?" </p><p>Peter shrugs, a graceless movement that ends up jarring the burger enough that the tomato slice slides out, lands on the wrapper with a solid thunk. Peter picks it up, eats it, wipes his fingers off on a napkin already spotted with grease marks. "Apparently Stiles trusts him and Satomi didn't say anything against him; she was quick to come to his defense, actually, and informed me that Stiles would vouch for him. That doesn't make me feel any better but it <i>does</i> grant me a certain measure of patience. One roadblock at a time." </p><p>Derek snorts at that, mutters, "Fair enough." He finishes the first burger quickly, then looks at Peter, says, "I need to start learning things sooner rather than later. Is there anything I can read, or -- maybe there's something in the vault?" </p><p>"Focus on the books Stiles gave you for now," Peter tells him after he's eaten a handful of fries and had time to think. "It's important that Lydia has back-up and I know a few things about Morrigans and the Shadow Court but not enough. Stiles agreed to give you those texts for a reason -- probably for more than one reason, knowing him, but he trusts you with helping Lydia." Peter sighs, says, "He's been keeping his own counsel on a great many things. I don't know why, maybe he just hasn't had time to tell me everything, or he thinks I know things that I don't, or he doesn't deem them important enough, or he's trying to let things happen naturally, but -- who knows." </p><p>"He knows pack law, though," Derek guesses. "He knows a <i>lot</i>. I know how his brain works -- I mean, sort of, as much as anyone can. He'd never get given the keys to a library and then leave before he reads every book inside of it. Knowledge is like a drug to him. All those books we packed up, it means Stiles knows things. But -- apart from that, he's always been more -- comfortable in this world than any human has a right to be. Even before he ignited. He's always been -- I don't know, instinctive is the only thing I can come up with. He'd probably be able to guess at what makes up the laws of pack even without the books." </p><p>Peter smiles, just a small thing, thinking about how <i>well</i> Derek knows Stiles. No wonder Derek was the alpha who Stiles came closest to forming real pack bonds with. "Sparks are -- primal," Peter says. "Primitive, even. So much of what he is, so much of the Spark, is instinct. It's the base things, ancient things, fundamental things, in all of us. Blood and breath and bone, fear and hunger and need. It's that part of him that can speak to the animal mind of a wolf. You throw his incessant need to know on top of that and --." Peter trails off, shaking his head. He'll never get bored with Stiles around, that's for sure. </p><p>Derek makes a small noise, wrinkling his nose at whatever scent Peter's putting out -- not that it's hard to figure out what that scent might be, thinking of Stiles and the bonds they share, how they were cemented, how Stiles delights in teasing him and Peter adores his mate for enticing the wolf to chase and hunt and <i>pounce</i>. </p><p>Peter offers Derek a smug look, no apology, and Derek sighs. There's a grin hiding under the sigh, though, and the simple joy of knowing that the people Derek cares for are happy. </p><p>"If you think Stiles is up on the laws," Derek says, "and he decides he wants to help me with the Jeep, then maybe I can get him rambling about them while we're working. Two birds with one stone: give Stiles something to talk about and get me up to speed. I wouldn't be taking any time away from Lydia's books that way, either." </p><p>"An elegant solution," Peter agrees. </p><p>The two descend into silence, then, as they devour every last bit of food Peter picked up.</p><p>--</p><p>After they clear up the detritus from lunch, Derek gets back to searching for car parts online and Peter goes over the forms Linda gave him. The one for a marriage license is pretty simple, even with the parental consent sections highlighted. The emancipation papers are a little more complicated. Stiles is over the minimum age and close enough to his majority that there should be no issue with that part of the process. He's been taking care of himself for long enough that no one would argue that he's capable of handling his own money and he's going to use Peter's address as his new location of residency. Any description he gives of the sheriff's ultimatum and agreement with Stiles leaving will get the judge on Stiles' side instantly. The only problem might be the requirement that Stiles have his own source of income. Stiles <i>might</i> have an explanation for that; if not, Peter can come up with something. </p><p>Still, going straight for the marriage might be better. Marriage would be its own form of emancipation and while he and Stiles are mates, bonded by blood and bite, marriage would give Peter an excuse to put a ring on Stiles' finger to show off that he's taken in a way that the majority of humans would respect. Seeing one more proof of possession on Stiles wouldn't hurt, not at all, and might do a little to help settle the wolf. Besides, they're going to marry eventually so the human world recognises their bond; why not do it now? </p><p>Stiles has spoken wistfully of his parents' wedding rings, even mentioned once that he'd be willing to wear one of his own, but he's never said anything about a wedding, never stated a preference, either seriously or teasing, about cakes or flowers or colours. Even the practical alternative, going before a justice of the peace or having one of their pack get ordained to sign the license was never mentioned. Peter thinks it has a lot to do with what he told Derek earlier, that Stiles runs on instinct just as much as a shifter does, and what are a few sentences on a piece of paper to a creature of blood and magic, who bonds via claim and bite? He thinks it has a little to do with Stiles' expectations for the future as well, though, that idea that he wouldn't live long enough to marry, and Peter hopes he's wrong about that, he really does, but he doubts it. </p><p>Either way, he's familiarised himself with the options and can discuss them with Stiles later. He puts the papers back in the envelope, drums his fingers against the table for a moment. He has enough time to take the bookshelves back to his townhouse but not enough time to put them together before he'd have to come back; he might as well save himself the trip. He started tracking down an architect earlier and, based on portfolios and reviews, he's found a few he likes the look of. He managed to send out a couple emails, just exploratory things asking for time availability and location constraints -- most of the people he likes work in the bigger cities further south or north; they might not be willing to travel to Beacon Hills and look at the location or visit during the building process. It's no sense in trying to look for a builder, not without having an architect on contract, so the pack house avenue is effectively stalled for now. </p><p>Or -- actually, no, it isn't. Whether they decide to build on the old site or not, they'll need to clear the land. Peter takes his laptop out of his messenger bag, opens it and starts looking for a company who can carry out the demolition and clearing. No doubt both he and Derek will want to go through the house first, and Stiles might have something he needs to do to the land, might need something of his own from the house, not that he can guess at what that would be. Still, for now, Peter can at least have phone numbers, possibly even quotes, ready. </p><p>--</p><p>The search takes a solid forty-five minutes and Peter's narrowed down his options to three local contractors when Derek lifts his head from his own work and tilts his head, listening to something outside. "Lydia's car," he tells Peter, when Peter looks up, one eyebrow raised at Derek's movement. "She drives a Prius; the hybrid powertrain sounds different from other engines and there aren't that many hybrids in town, especially ones that come into this neighbourhood." </p><p>Derek knows Lydia's car well enough to recognise it by sound. That's -- interesting, to say the least. </p><p>The tips of Derek's ears go red but he determinedly doesn't say anything. Instead, he closes his laptop and the notebook, moves both of them to the side of the table, and gets up. He goes to the kitchen, pulls out an armful of water bottles from the fridge, and sets them on the counter, ignoring Peter's gaze, fixed on his back. Peter bites back a smile but doesn't push, not yet and not when he's more than happy to let things between his nephew and Lydia progress as they may. </p><p>It's only a matter of minutes before he hears the echo of voices on the ground floor, the faint scent of Stiles coming up through the stairwell even though the elevator begins creaking its way down to meet the teenagers. Stiles has his full scent out, that's the only explanation, and it makes Peter consider the comfort Stiles must feel around his and Lydia's friend, Danny, that even though the human wouldn't notice the smell, Stiles isn't bothering to hide it. </p><p>By the time the elevator comes to a stop at their floor, Peter's standing up as well, on the other side of the table, watching the door. Stiles comes in first, tosses his backpack aside and kicks his shoes off, greets Derek absently as he walks past Derek to faceplant into Peter's chest, wrap his arms around Peter's waist and let out a sigh of relief. </p><p>"Missed you," he says. "God, I just -- that was torture. I think I'm gonna get my GED and just stay with you all the time." </p><p>"Not under my watch, you aren't," Lydia snaps, following Stiles inside. She sets her bag and her purse down near the sofa, folds her arms across her chest, and says, "Oh, for -- Stiles, <i>please</i>. We have company." </p><p>Stiles shifts, turns in Peter's hold, though he keeps his back pressed to Peter's chest, linking their hands together over his stomach, like if he moves away, if he separates from Peter, he might not survive. Peter feels the exact same way. </p><p>"Danny's not company," Stiles says, and Peter doesn't have to see his mate's face to know there's a tiny smile lighting up Stiles' mouth. "Company's people we don't like. We like Danny."</p><p>Peter snorts, looks up long enough to nod at Lydia before he turns his attention to the third member of their little high school trio. Danny's standing next to Lydia, eyes wide as his gaze flicks from Peter and Stiles, to Derek, back and forth. He's conventionally attractive for a boy for his age, Peter guesses, tall and lean with well-defined muscles in his arms and wearing a tight enough shirt to show off that the muscles aren't <i>just</i> in his arms. He's got an intelligent gleam to his eyes, too, though Peter would expect nothing less from someone who Lydia approves of, and the smallest beginnings of laugh lines around his eyes and mouth that speak to a person of good humour and patience. His scent is all crisp leaves and damp earth, the fullness of growth and the implication of approaching hibernation, ripe fruit and wheat ready for harvest. </p><p>Well, well, well. Peter's smelt that <i>very</i> specific scent before and knows <i>precisely</i> what it means. How fascinating. </p><p>Stiles elbows him, emanating amusement from every single one of his pores, and Peter leans down, rests his chin on Stiles' shoulder, right over the nearly-healed scabs he left when he drew Stiles' blood with his claws.</p><p>"Not Miguel, I assume," Danny says, nodding at Derek. He sounds as though he's just won a private bet he placed with himself ages ago. That draws Peter's curiosity.</p><p>"Danny," Lydia says, "the man octopused around Stiles is Peter Hale." Her tone, arch and judgmental, flattens out into something more affectionate as she says, "And that's Derek, his nephew. Peter, Derek, this is Danny Māhealani, one of my best friends since elementary school."</p><p>Derek, with his arms folded across his chest, simply nods, says, "Hi," but Peter pushes and prods his way out from behind Stiles, crossing the room and standing in front of Danny. Stiles, clearly unwilling to let go, has curled one finger around one of the belt loops in Peter's jeans and has skidded along on his socks for the ride. </p><p>"Danny," Peter says, "short for Daniel, I presume? Which do you prefer?" </p><p>"Only my parents call me Daniel," Danny says, "and only when I'm in trouble. How long have you and Stiles been together? Because he's seventeen and you've got to be somewhere in your thirties." </p><p>Stiles laughs, says, "Oh my god, when did you become such a protective mother-hen? Fuck, I'm surrounded by them." He lets go of Peter and reaches out, grabs one of Danny's hands with his left hand, one of Lydia's with his right hand, dragging them over to the couch. He sets them both down, next to each, with Lydia on the centre cushion, then he goes over to the bed, perches on the edge and pats the space next to him while he looks at Peter. </p><p>Peter goes to him, answering his mate's summons, with something that approaches eagerness. Lydia twists to look behind her and Derek moves at that, gathering up the water bottles and handing them out to each person before he sits on the other side of Lydia, not close enough to touch but close enough that she should be able to feel the heat coming off his skin. </p><p>"I'm willing to engage in pleasantries if anyone wants to," Danny offers into the silence that falls around them. "We can talk about the weather, gas prices, current events? The Lakers have gotten the play-offs to a good start this season?" </p><p>"No," Lydia says, though her scent's all fond amusement. Peter wonders, idly, how many conversations about sports she'd had to listen to over the years. The majority of his attention, though, is on the way Lydia looks to Derek, holds some sort of silent conversation with him, then turns  to Peter. Peter, for his part, inclines his head in approval at Lydia's gambit. He might be alpha, and this entire meeting might've been orchestrated to introduce Danny to him to see if Peter's willing to invite him to join the pack, but he's Lydia's friend. She knows him best. "No, we can get to it. You're going to have questions; best we don't waste time on frivolities." </p><p>Danny looks at Lydia, intent on finding something in her expression, and whatever he sees there has the slight tension in his scent dissipating. "Is this where you finally tell me what's going on?" Danny asks, looking between the four packmates. "Because I know there's <i>something</i>. Jackson wouldn't tell me and you," he says to Lydia, "I was worried you were losing your mind, and then -- a few things Ethan said when we were dating, Stiles came to school looking like a cancer patient for a while, Scott's been behaving <i>ridiculously</i> out of character for a while now, and people have disappeared and died and moved and --. I know there's <i>something</i>." He glances over Peter and Derek, sets his eyes on Stiles, says, cautiously, slowly, "Some of the things I heard, some of the things I've seen, I -- there are no wolves in California. I checked. But --."</p><p>"But," Lydia says. "Yeah." </p><p>"Werewolves are real," Danny says, eyes wide as he looks at Lydia. "Holy shit. You -- okay, fine, I'm not mad you didn't tell me because I get this has to be a secret, but <i>fuck</i>, Lydia, I'm so furious you didn't tell me." </p><p>Lydia flinches a little at that and Derek growls, eyes flaring blue as he wraps one arm around Lydia's waist and tugs her closer, until she's practically sitting in Derek's lap. Danny, for his part, merely stares. His scent never wavers into fear or anxiety or any kind of glee. Instead, it lingers somewhere between understanding and <i>hurt</i>.</p><p>Danny reaches out to touch Lydia but Derek snarls, the full beta shift coming over his face. Danny's eyes go wide but Lydia looks at Derek, puts a hand over his. "It's okay," she tells him. "I'm okay." Derek bares his teeth, lip curling, but the shift fades back soon enough. Lydia smiles at him and turns back to Danny, says, "I didn't know, when it started, and then I didn't know <i>enough</i>. I -- you were our link to normality, mine and Jackson's, and I didn't want to give that up. I didn't want to bring you into this because it's been -- so much has happened, we've all changed so much. But you're one of my best friends and I've seen what it's like for you since Jackson left, and I -- I miss you. Scott was never going to tell you anything but Peter said it was all right, and I -- I'm <i>sorry</i>." </p><p>"Explain that," Danny says, half-asking. "Scott and Peter, why them, why the different approaches?" </p><p>"There's a hierarchy to the shifter world," Peter says, drawing Danny's attention away from Lydia. Derek relaxes and he loosens his hold on Lydia; she doesn't move, though, just settles one hand on top of Derek's and laces their fingers together. "Alpha, beta, omega," Peter says. "A werewolf without a pack is considered an omega, a danger to themselves and to others, because packs give us bonds, give us strength, give us connections and grounding and anchors. The majority of the pack members are considered betas, but the leader, the head of a pack, is the alpha. For a time, Scott was the only alpha in Beacon Hills." </p><p>Danny starts laughing, though the noise tapers off when he realises no one else is taking that as a joke. "Scott?" he asks. "Scott McCall? An <i>alpha</i>? He can't lead a lacrosse team and he was expected to lead a pack of <i>werewolves</i>?" </p><p>Stiles reaches over, places his hand on Peter's thigh, squeezes a little. The instant connection soothes the sick, horrified amusement Peter feels at knowing that even <i>teenagers</i> can see how unfit Scott is to lead a pack right now. </p><p>"They call him a true alpha," Peter says. "And without any other alpha to challenge him, he became de facto leader of Beacon Hills. He decided not to tell anyone about the pack and asked his pack not to, either. He didn't bind the words into a pack command but it's -- it can be uncomfortable to go against the alpha's wishes." </p><p>"You said for a time," Danny says. "And Lydia said you told her it was all right to fill me in. Which makes you an alpha. A rival pack? One that Lydia and Stiles have joined?" He pauses, then guesses, "Scott doesn't know." Peter shakes his head, and Danny frowns, looking at Stiles. "You'd really leave your best friend's pack?" </p><p>Stiles makes a face, says, "Yes," without any doubt or misgivings in his voice. "Scott's -- it's complicated. And he probably still considers me his. But you know us, Danny. Since when have I ever <i>followed</i> Scott?"</p><p>Danny huffs out a laugh, admits, "You've never been much of a follower. Were <i>you</i> bound by the -- what Peter said, the alpha's wishes?" </p><p>"No," Stiles says, after a moment's consideration. "But I was content enough to go along with them until there was a better option. I'm not sorry I didn't tell you but I <i>am</i> sorry that our silence hurt you."</p><p>Danny thinks about that, finally gives Stiles a nod that Peter thinks, judging by the scent and the tilt to Danny's head, the way his shoulders are sloping down, not held tight, means acceptance. Danny looks at Peter, then, and asks, "Do your eyes go blue?" </p><p>"Red," Peter says, and lets his wolf-eyes out. "All alphas have red eyes. Betas have gold or blue eyes, as do omegas." </p><p>"What are you two, then?" Danny asks, glancing from Stiles to Lydia. "Are you still human or are you -- it happened to Jackson, Scott, and Isaac and Boyd, too, probably, judging by the way they played lacrosse. They all became something else so there has to be a method of transmission apart from genetics. Movies say bites or saliva, something like that. Were you two -- bitten?" </p><p>Peter smells pride coming from both Lydia and Stiles, wonders if Stiles can feel Peter's own shock echoing through their bond. Lydia said the boy was intelligent and Peter assumed he would have to be, to have her respect, but those kinds of leaps of logic remind him of Stiles. Derek merely raises an eyebrow and uncaps one of the bottles of water sitting on the floor in front of the couch, pressing it into Lydia's hands. </p><p>Lydia takes a sip, gives Derek the bottle back, and tells Danny, "We're not shifters," drawing Danny's attention back to her. "Though I was bitten by an alpha. It activated something else in me, something genetic. For a while, we thought banshee but I'm something else. Something a little more rare." </p><p>She sounds hesitant but before Peter or Derek can tell her that she doesn't have to go into detail if she doesn't want to, that if Danny's her friend, he'll let that go until she's ready, Danny says, "Of course you'd be something rare. In this world, I'm guessing rare equates to powerful, too, or least highly desired. Don't tell me yet. Let me learn a little more first." The smile she gives him is breathtaking. Peter hears Derek's heart skip a beat and then go steady again, but this time just a little faster. Danny looks at Stiles, then, and says, "You wouldn't ask for the bite," like he knows that for a fact. </p><p>This time it's Peter's heart who skips a beat. "Why would you say that?" Peter asks. </p><p>Danny wrinkles his nose, says, "Stiles -- Stiles is comfortable with what he is. He's sure of himself. He's had -- if not the opportunity, then at least the option, to reinvent himself a number of times and he never has. Unless the bite came with something that he wanted, something that he couldn't get any other way, he'd never do it." </p><p>"When Lydia and Stiles talked about you," Peter says, "they told me you were smart. They never said you were this insightful." </p><p>The cloying scent of burst apples, tart and full of juice, takes root in Danny's scent. "How else do you think I kept Jackson under control for all these years?" Danny asks. "You learn how to read people." He glances at Stiles, then, at the way that Stiles' hand is still on Peter's thigh and Peter's hand is covering it. "Not a wolf, then. But something else. And important to the alpha." He blinks, asks, sounding strangled, "Wolves mate. Do werewolves?" </p><p>Stiles laughs, and rolls up his sleeve, turns his arm over so Danny can see the bite mark scarred into Stiles' arm. "Yes," Stiles says. "So, I mean -- I did get bitten. Just not a bite to change me; it wouldn't have worked anyway, with what I am. And yes, before you ask, werewolves mate for life. Peter and I are bound, now, and before you blow up, it was my decision. Peter was going to wait for me but I -- convinced him otherwise." </p><p>"Good to know werewolves aren't immune to your powers of persuasion," Danny mutters. </p><p>"There's a lot we need to tell you," Lydia says. "A lot you'll need to learn, and <i>fast</i>, because of Scott, and the others, and -- because of other things, things about me and Stiles and the land. This world is violent and bloody. I'm -- not sorry that we're dragging you into this, but I am, too. I'm just selfish enough to want you with us more than I want you safely kept out of it." </p><p>Stiles leans forward a little, then, says, "Beacon Hills is dangerous. Not knowing doesn't make you safer but it does give you a level of -- plausible deniability, I guess. At least this way, knowing the truth, you'll understand some of the undercurrents of what's going on around you. You'll be able to protect yourself." </p><p>Derek speaks up, then, for the first time since they all sat down. "You'll never be able to un-know," he tells Danny. "If you don't think you can handle this, you should walk out the door right now." Lydia gives Derek a look of complete displeasure and Peter winces at the scent coming off of her, all anger and burnt metal. Derek meets her gaze, though, and says, "I'm not wrong, Lydia. You never had a choice. Danny does." </p><p>Lydia grumbles but subsides, finally nods once, reluctant in her agreement. "It <i>is</i> dangerous," Lydia tells Danny. "Since everything kicked off, I've almost died -- more times than I count. Peter actually <i>did</i> die." </p><p>Danny gives Peter a wide-eyed look and Peter shrugs one shoulder, not even bothering to hide the grin as he says, "I was only mostly-dead. I got better." The smile fades, though, as Peter says, "You don't have to decide right now, or even this week. It's a lot to consider and we'll give you the time and space you need to think about it, all the answers you want as truthfully as we can give them. But Lydia and Stiles want you in the pack and I'm intent right now on making sure they both stay very, very happy. Alphas need to provide for the members of their pack, to make sure they're content, but Stiles is my mate and Lydia is important to both him and my nephew, and the instincts I carry as an alpha are greater than other alphas. I've heard what they've said about you and now that I've met you I can say with confidence that you would be an asset to the pack on your own merits. I would like you to consider the option of joining my pack. You would not be required to take the bite but it's on offer as well." </p><p>"I don't want the bite," Danny says, firmly, "though I do reserve the right to change my mind in the future." Peter nods in agreement and Danny tilts his head, deep in thought. "You're still building your pack," he says, sounds as if he's working out something out loud, "and Stiles was gone last week, so I assume the mating is fresh. You said Scott doesn't know." He pauses, narrows his eyes as he looks at Peter. "I assume there are other shifters in school or in Beacon Hills but you came to me first. Just because of Lydia and Stiles or for some other reason?" </p><p>Peter can <i>feel</i> Stiles' smug pride, can scent the same coming from Lydia's direction, coiled up amidst her scent. "Mostly because of Stiles and Lydia," Peter admits. "I gave them the option of deciding who to bring back first. I'll confess, I didn't think they'd choose you. But it does send a message and one that other packs will understand even if McCall doesn't." </p><p>"This is some straight-up Machiavellian-level bullshit," Danny says. He grins, then, brightly, and says, "I love it. <i>Awesome</i>. How do I sign up?" </p><p>Derek stares and Peter -- wants to. Lydia smiles, tries to hide it, but Stiles bursts out laughing. "Oh, man, this is gonna be so great," he manages to say, sliding down Peter's side to curl into the bed, press his face into the sheets to hide the sound of his -- it's turned to cackling now. </p><p>Peter smacks Stiles on the hip, right over the scabs, and asks Danny, even as Stiles screeches in complaint, "You're sure? You have time to think it over." </p><p>"I've had time," Danny says. "I don't -- Lydia said I've been one of her best friends since elementary school. She's been one of mine. I trust her. And I want this. The way she and Stiles are with each other, it's pack, right? I can feel it here, with all of you. I want that. I want this. I'm sure, alpha." </p><p>Peter gives the wolf freedom of his eyes, again, and he studies Danny with alpha-red eyes, lupine instinct judging Danny in an instant. The boy's clever, loyal, knows how to keep a secret and is already willing to call him alpha. The wolf has no doubts, not about this one, and it grumbles at Peter's slight hesitation. </p><p>Scenting Lydia's hope and Stiles' glee and even Derek's wary acceptance, Peter gets up, stands right over Danny, and Lydia murmurs, "Give him your left hand." </p><p>Danny lifts his left arm and Peter turns it, one hand under the curve of Danny's elbow, the other curled around Danny's fingers. He releases the wolf, enough for the beta shift to bloom into being, and he hears the sudden up-tick of Danny's heartbeat, smells the slightest bit of trepidation cross his scent. There's no fear there, though. There's no regret or doubt. </p><p>Peter leans down and brings Danny's arm up at the same time, pressing his fangs against Danny's skin. Danny doesn't flinch. </p><p>Peter's bond to Derek grew into being, and Lydia's screamed its birth, but Danny's -- blooms. Like flowers after the first thaw, like the companionship found around bonfires on dark nights, like the comfort of a hard day's work pressed side-by-side with someone else, it <i>sprouts</i>, unbidden, like unexpected friendship and the beginnings of a forest's worth of life-giving protection.</p><p>Peter pulls back, eyes closed as the bond settles, and he hears Danny say, "<i>Wow</i>," even as Stiles is there, holding Peter up and tugging him back to sit on the bed before his knees give out. </p><p>"Stiles," Lydia says. "Why does -- what the hell," and she sounds tired. "Are we <i>all</i> something other than human?" </p><p>"His last name's <i>Māhealani</i>," Stiles snaps, though the retort lacks any kind of heat or accusation. "You're telling me you didn't expect something more than mundane from a person whose last name literally translates to 'bright moonlight,' in <i>this</i> town?" </p><p>Lydia sighs and Peter opens his eyes in time to see her give Danny an apologetic look. Danny, for his part, looks stunned, though whether that's because of the bond settling, what Lydia said, or what <i>Stiles</i> said, Peter's not sure. </p><p>"I'm sorry," she tells Danny. "I didn't know. I would've told you if I did." </p><p>Danny gives her a wide-eyed look and admits, "I have no idea what you're apologising for and I think, for now, I'm going to ignore what you and Stiles <i>both</i> said." He pauses, looks at Stiles, and asks, "That's safe, right? I can ignore it for now?" </p><p>Stiles hums, says, "For now. When you're ready, maybe talk to your dad's dad." </p><p>"Tūtū," Danny says, blankly. He starts rubbing his chest, doesn't seem to notice as he does. "All right. Sure. I'll -- yeah. Is it <i>supposed</i> to feel like this?" He looks down, makes a noise of surprise when he sees his hand pressed above his heart like he has no idea how it got there. </p><p>"It'll settle," Peter says. "But it might be best for you to sleep it off. Lydia, you'll take him home, won't you? Make sure he eats something before he falls asleep." </p><p>Lydia narrows her eyes but nods, helping Danny up. "You and I," she hisses at Stiles, pointing at him, "will be having <i>words</i>, Stiles. I'll pick you up in the morning for breakfast. Be ready on time." </p><p>Stiles nods, holds up his hands in surrender, and Derek finally moves, takes the majority of Danny's weight from Lydia as he says he'll help her get Danny to the car. The three of them leave and Peter waits until the elevator gets to the ground floor before he turns to Stiles and says, "He's a fucking <i>elemental</i>, Stiles. An elemental on the verge of activation. How did -- what're -- why didn't -- I could smell it on him as soon as he walked in; you <i>must</i> have known."</p><p>"I knew he had the potential," Stiles admits. His scent curls up into angry little spikes brimming with light. "It runs in his family. But his father's gift is so weak and his grandfather's is barely stronger than that. I never imagined he'd be strong enough to activate -- but I did know he carried the potential." </p><p>"You've got to tell us these things," Peter says, voice rising in volume, eyes going red. "What else are you hiding, Stiles? Lydia, Danny, the <i>Macfie</i> that lives within the territory -- you've got to stop keeping all these secrets." </p><p>Stiles stands up, eyes narrowed and glowing so brightly white that looking at them makes Peter's eyes instantly well up with tears. "No," he says, so blunt that Peter feels the force of the word like a knock-out uppercut. "I don't. You're our alpha but don't forget what I am, Peter. I owe you <i>nothing</i>. I choose to tell you many things, because I love you and I trust you and I'm your mate, but I am under <i>no</i> obligation. I am a Spark and you are mine, and I will never see you harmed if I can help it, at the cost of my own life and magic if need be, but my counsel is my own."</p><p>Peter feels flattened by the power Stiles is emitting, by the words he's saying, by the way that his scent has grown so much that it's become nothing but ozone and light. Stiles' body is starting to disappear within the sunlight cast of his magic, the sound of it thrumming loud enough to shake Peter's bones in his skin. It's more than Stiles has ever shown him before and it sends Peter to the ground, the wolf whimpering in confusion and the man on the verge of fear-fueled insanity. </p><p>"Sorry," Peter breathes out. "I'm sorry, Spark, I'm sorry, forgive me, please, I'm --" </p><p>The wolf whines, high and pained, and then Peter blinks, the room back to normal, light and scent and sound back to normal, Stiles back to normal -- what passes for normal these days. Stiles drops to one knee, runs his fingers through Peter's hair. "Calm, wolf," he murmurs. "Calm. It's all right. Everything's all right." </p><p>"Is it?" Derek asks, sounds like he's standing by the door, maybe not even inside the doorway. He sounds -- cautious. Scared, even. Peter doesn't have the energy to look up, to speak, to move. He should, he knows he should do something to reassure his nephew, but even the thought of pressing down comfort down their pack bond is too much for him. </p><p>"It will be," Stiles says. </p><p>Peter hears footsteps, then, and feels Derek press a hand to his back, under the shirt. There's a tugging sensation under Peter's skin and he feels the pain leaving him, leaving behind nothing so much as pure mental and physical exhaustion.</p><p>Derek shifts, pulls Peter a little to lean on him, and Peter does, fighting to open his eyes and failing miserably. "You knew," Derek says, quietly. "About Danny." </p><p>"Not everything," Stiles says. "Enough to piss off the alpha." </p><p>"You left us a chessboard, once," Derek says. "Is that how you see this? See us? As a game, with the pack as pawns to be maneuvered around the board?" </p><p>Stiles doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. He told Peter, once, that Sparks have long been considered emotionless sociopaths, that he doesn't care about people the way he should, that he's used to living behind a mask. Peter told him to be himself, to not hide, to not pretend at emotion he doesn't feel. </p><p>How naive he was. How <i>stupid</i> he was. </p><p>"Not stupid," Stiles tells him, still running his hand through Peter's hair, using his nails every so often to help ground Peter. "Just young. Impossibly young." He sounds as tired as Peter feels. "We'll figure it out. Sleep, Peter. You'll feel better in the morning. And -- I'm sorry." </p><p>Peter opens his mouth to tell Stiles that he has nothing to apologise for, that Stiles is a Spark and Peter forgot that, just for a brief moment, at the worst moment, but then moonglow curls up around him and carries him away.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first thing Peter registers is the sheet wrapped around his legs. The next thing is the smell of coffee and bacon, then air against his face. He opens his eyes, watches the ceiling fan spin around and around. Every part of him aches and he doesn't know why, then the memories come back. He sorts through the pack bonds, feels Derek, worried and quiet, Lydia, worried and furious, Danny, overwhelmed and distracted, Stiles -- Stiles. The bond is there but muted, sort of, as if it's on the other side of a piece of stained glass, cast over with shades of orange and yellow and white. Peter pokes at it, feels the usual slide of pomegranate juice pouring through his fingers and ambrosia in the back of his throat, but it's not as strong as usual -- not in the sense that it's grown weaker or diluted but more like -- he's not sure. Like it's hidden under something, behind something. </p>
<p>The thought that Stiles is blocking their bond sets Peter's heart racing. He sits up, has to fight with the sheets to get his legs free, but before he stands up, Derek's there, one hand pressed to Peter's shoulder, keeping him down. Peter snarls and Derek snarls back even as he tilts his head to the side. </p>
<p>"You need to stay in bed," Derek tells him. "You need <i>rest</i>. Stiles said --" </p>
<p>"Where is he?" Peter asks, demands, cutting Derek off. "Where's Stiles?" </p>
<p>Derek opens his mouth, closes it again. He shrugs, helplessly, says, "We don't know," and Peter gives up the fight, nearly collapses. "We brought you home last night. When I saw him last, Stiles was sleeping on top of you. I slept on the couch. Lydia knocked this morning and woke me up. Stiles wasn't -- he was gone. He responded to our texts, said he was okay and that Lydia should go to school, so -- she did, except --. Peter, Malia's not there. Lydia tried calling her but she didn't answer."</p>
<p>Peter doesn't know what to do with that information. He doesn't know what to do at <i>all</i>. The wolf inside is whining, a low sound that rings in Peter's ears and sends a continuous flood of goosebumps rushing up and down his spine. Peter pushes at his bond to Stiles, pushes <i>hard</i>, but can't break the wall or block or whatever it is that's keeping the full force of it away from him. </p>
<p>A moment later, his phone, set on the nightstand to charge, rings. </p>
<p>"Stiles?" Peter asks as he answers, having seen the name pop up. "Where are you? Are you okay?" </p>
<p>"<i>I'm fine, wolf</i>," Stiles replies. He sounds distracted but otherwise all right. Peter can hear another heartbeat and set of footsteps near Stiles, and his guess that it's Malia is confirmed a moment later when Stiles says, "<i>I've got Malia with me. We're on our way back home right now.</i>" </p>
<p>Peter waits for more; when Stiles doesn't say anything else, he asks, "What happened?" He can hear both Stiles and Malia jogging, sounds like they're on grass, dirt, nothing paved. "Are you two in the preserve?" </p>
<p>Stiles snorts, says, "<i>Good ears. And yes. My wards went off this morning, early. Satomi and Solé have both called since then with more bad news. Lots to fill you in on.</i>" </p>
<p>Malia must lean close to the phone, then, because Peter has no problem hearing her when she says, "<i>Stiles took me to get the scent and I have it. I'll be able to track it.</i>" </p>
<p>"Be careful," Peter says. He feels helpless, knows he sounds it as well. </p>
<p>"<i>We will</i>," Stiles says. "<i>Give us about twenty; we're close to where I left the -- oh. Uh. Hey. Don't be mad, but I --</i>" </p>
<p>Peter cuts him off with a dry, choked-up kind of laugh. "Don't crash my car, Stiles. Just come home, please." </p>
<p>There's a pause, then Stiles says, "<i>Love you</i>," and hangs up before Peter can say it back. </p>
<p>Something inside of Peter, deeper than the wolf, cracks a little. </p>
<p>Derek, who sat down next to him during the phone call, nudges Peter with his elbow. "Twenty minutes gives you time to shower," he says, gently. "I'll get a new pot of coffee going." When Peter doesn't move, doesn't respond, Derek sighs. "He said he loves you," Derek says. "And that he's okay. He's bringing Malia here, which means he's already told her about our pack and either he's sure she'll accept your invitation or she's already said she will; you said yesterday that you didn't want anyone who wasn't pack to know where you live and Stiles agreed. So go take a shower, scrub off whatever happened between you two last night, and let's deal with whatever <i>Stiles</i> is calling bad news. Okay?" </p>
<p>Peter takes a deep breath in, lets it out slowly. "Okay," he says. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Peter's just made it to the kitchen and picked up his coffee from where Derek's left it on the counter when he hears his car pull into the parking space out front. Peter sets the coffee back down without even having taken a drink, goes to the door and almost flings it open. Stiles, halfway out of the car, freezes in place and gives Peter a tremulous, half-hopeful smile. </p>
<p>"Uh. Hi?" Stiles says. </p>
<p>Malia gets out from the passenger seat, closes the car door with a little more force than is required, and says, "I'm joining the pack, so Stiles said it was okay to come with him. I can wait here if you need me to." </p>
<p>Peter shakes his head. "It's all right. Come in, both of you." </p>
<p>Malia scampers past him, saying something about smelling bacon, and Stiles drags his feet as he walks up to where Peter's still standing in the doorway. Stiles stops within arm's reach, smells of sorrow and worry, low-key anxiety threaded throughout his scent. "I'm sorry," Stiles says. "For last night." </p>
<p>"You have nothing to apologise for," Peter tells him. "I pushed and I wouldn't have taken anything else for an answer." </p>
<p>"We don't know that," Stiles says. "You don't know that. I overreacted; I didn't think it was worth mentioning Danny's heritage because the rest of his family are so weak that I -- but I should have. I should've made sure you knew in case bonding him to the pack caused something to happen like Lydia's did. And I -- Peter, I told you that we shouldn't be unnecessarily harsh to pack, and then I go and do <i>that</i> when we're not just pack, I'm your <i>mate</i>. There was no reason for me to go supernova. I was wrong. And I'm sorry." </p>
<p>Peter moves, then, wraps Stiles up tight in his arms, feels the thundering beat of Stiles' heart throbbing in his ears, mirroring his own. "I'm sorry, too," he murmurs. "I am. I just -- sometimes I'm too comfortable with what you are. Sometimes I forget." </p>
<p>Stiles lets out a wet-sounding laugh. "I want you to," he says. "And then I go ballistic when you actually <i>do</i>. I'll do better. I'll get a grip on it, Peter, I will; I'll find a balance somehow, I promise." </p>
<p>"We'll both do better," Peter says. "Balance is a tricky thing. We'll work on it." </p>
<p>"We have time," Stiles says, pressing a kiss to Peter's throat. </p>
<p>Peter doesn't let go, not for a long time, but he eventually peels himself back from Stiles, puts his hands on Stiles' shoulders and then leans in, brushes a small, chaste kiss to Stiles' mouth. "Give me back the bond," he says, plea almost entirely breathed into Stiles' mouth. "Don't take that from me again." </p>
<p>The bond between them unfurls into fullness; whatever was blocking it fades into mist and then gently evaporates away entirely, disappearing in the light and heat of the Spark. Peter pulls on it, feels the familiar wave of pomegranate and ambrosia flood over him, eucalyptus and lemon drowning him, and his wolf settles, calmed now that it knows its mate is here, is well, isn't upset with them. When Peter blinks back the feeling of the bond back to full-strength, he wraps one arm around Stiles' waist, fingers dipping along the top of his jeans. </p>
<p>Stiles, for his part, face-plants into Peter's neck, breath damp against Peter's throat. "This was our first fight," Stiles says, "and we have pack here. Ugh. Can we reschedule the make-up sex?" </p>
<p>"We'll take care of what we can and then send them away," Peter tells him. The thought of it, of being inside Stiles, of watching Stiles fall apart, fills his mind, sets his wolf to growling in hunger, and the thought of being <i>close</i> to Stiles again, the thought of reaffirming that they're here, together, everything resolved, has the growls turning to whimpers of want. </p>
<p>"I think it's gonna have to wait," Stiles says, looking petulant at the idea, but then his scent rings through with the promise of sex, all ripe and heavy and soaked in blood and sweat. "But the bedroom's still warded," he points out, gradually standing up and giving Peter a shy, hopeful smile completely at odds with the hungry arousal his scent's mired in. </p>
<p>Peter feels the press of his fangs, swallows back the shift, and then gently smacks the back of Stiles' head. "Little <i>monster</i>," he says, and knows his own tone's full of appreciation and the exasperation of a man made to wait for something he <i>craves</i>. "Come on, then; I'm sure whatever it is you have to tell us will be enough to kill my libido." </p>
<p>Stiles glances down at Peter's crotch, raises an eyebrow, and sounds entirely too pleased with himself as he drawls, "Only temporarily. I'm sure we'll be able to resurrect it later." He pecks a kiss on Peter's cheek, then brushes past Peter, hand trailing down Peter's arm as he does. A moment later, his fingers lace themselves in with Peter's, and he tugs, lightly. </p>
<p>Helpless to resist, Peter follows. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Derek and Malia are sitting next to each other at the counter, Derek with a cup of coffee in front of him, Malia with a plate of bacon -- <i>just</i> bacon. Derek gives Peter a careful once-over and his lips quirk up a little when he sees Peter and Stiles holding hands, a line of tension dissolving away from his shoulders and out of his scent. Peter nods at Derek, unspoken reassurance, and then Peter turns to Malia, gives her, and her plate, an incredulous look. Peter raises an eyebrow at Derek, who just shrugs and says, "She was hungry." </p>
<p>Peter looks at Stiles, then, and Stiles sighs, though the sound is filled with fondness. </p>
<p>"Malia's -- still adjusting," he says. "But she's a predator, and predators eat meat, and she's not getting enough at home or at school. Mr. Tate's become a vegetarian; can you believe that?" He slides Peter's abandoned coffee over to the alpha, then leaves Peter at the counter to pours himself a cup, though when he's done with that, he stands next to Peter, presses the length of their bodies together. </p>
<p>Malia looks at them, back and forth, cheeks bulging as she chews around the food in her mouth. Once she swallows, she says, "You smell bonded. Stiles said you would but he didn't say it was this strong. S'good. Strong alphas with strong mate-bonds lead strong packs." </p>
<p>Peter glances at Derek, who smells affectionate but baffled, then to Stiles, who's trying to steal a piece of bacon off of Malia's plate without her noticing, fingers getting smacked every time they get close to the edge of the plate, then back to Malia. "Is that why you want to join our pack?" </p>
<p>"No," Malia says. "Yes? But I knew I did before I scented you." </p>
<p>"How?" Peter asks. "Or, why, might be the better question, I suppose." </p>
<p>Malia rolls her eyes. She smells of Stiles, of bacon, of the preserve, but, under that, of annoyance. Peter isn't sure where that's coming from or to whom it's directed, but it reminds him so, so much of Laura. He has to force himself to pay attention to her, not dwell on memories of his niece, when Malia says, "Stiles is my anchor. I go where he goes." </p>
<p>Stiles is her <i>anchor</i>. That explains a great deal, goes a long way toward understanding the particular relationship Malia and Stiles have, not to mention how well she's doing at reintegrating with human society. A shifter is only ever as strong as their anchor, and having a Spark as an anchor means that her strength will prove to be <i>formidable</i>. Of course, Stiles is Peter's anchor as well, might even be Derek's, and while ordinarily having so many people in the pack dependent on the same person isn't advisable, having them anchor to a Spark is -- understandable. </p>
<p>"What about Scott?" Derek asks. </p>
<p>"Scott's nice," Malia says. "His wolf is strong. He acts like a human, though. He doesn't know how to use his teeth and he doesn't want to learn. If something attacked the pack, he'd probably try to <i>talk</i> to it instead of fighting. Packs like that die out. Maybe that would be okay somewhere else but not here. Things here are dangerous. We need teeth to deal with them, not tongue." She shoves a piece of bacon in her mouth, chews, says, shrugging, "I haven't made it this long to die because of an alpha who wants to be human. I follow Stiles, so when Stiles was with Scott, I was, too. Now he's with you. Coyotes don't need pack, not like wolves, but I like it. I like it when Stiles lets me sleep with him. Scott gets weird about it. Will you?" </p>
<p>Malia's eyes go blue, but whether that's her own choice or in reaction to Peter, Peter doesn't know. Frankly, he doesn't care. He's baring his teeth, opening his mouth to <i>howl</i> that Stiles is his and his alone; before he can, Stiles brushes a finger along the back of Peter's hand. Along with his touch comes a little bit of Spark-light, sizzling like raindrops on hot concrete, just enough to prod him out of the rage. </p>
<p>"Sleep," Stiles tells him. "Malia sometimes shifts when she's asleep and needs help anchoring to her humanity in the mornings, but she's more used to the instincts than even you, Peter. Denning with pack is always safer than sleeping alone; because she's a coyote, her pack bonds are thinner and need more contact." Stiles leans, turns his head to nuzzle at the side of Peter's face, runs his nose next to Peter's ear, leaving his scent liberally drenched across Peter's skin. "Just <i>sleep</i>," he says. </p>
<p>"We had sex before," Malia says, watching them closely. "Me and Stiles. Will that be a problem?" </p>
<p>Peter buries the urge to claw at her, reminds himself that it was <i>before</i>, that Stiles has claimed him, that he and Stiles are mated and belong to each other now, no one else. "I'd prefer it if you didn't remind me," Peter tells her, "but as long as you respect the mate-bond now, then no, it won't be a problem. You'll still be welcome to sleep with us when you want." </p>
<p>Malia's scent goes warm and sugar-soft with happiness. "Good," she says. She glances down at the four remaining strips of bacon on her plate, lips curling in disappointment, then looks back to Peter, head cocked to one side. "Stiles said you would bite me. Can I finish my bacon first? It won't take long." </p>
<p>Derek's the first one to start laughing, but Peter's not far behind and even Stiles chuckles a little. "Yeah," Peter says. "Go ahead and finish your bacon first." </p>
<p>She doesn't hesitate, picks up two pieces, eats them both at the same time, ripping into them with fangs more than teeth. Peter makes a mental note to stop by the butcher shop; he'd been considering joining their co-op program for the fresh fruits and vegetables, but he knows they have an option to add on meat and dairy as well. It'd be more expensive than the grocery store; the cost would be worth it, though, and the products healthier. Stiles might not say much about the quality of food Peter's buying but he knows how seriously Stiles takes it, and if he won't be coddling the sheriff anymore, he'll be putting that energy into them. Better to show that Peter's taking him seriously even before Stiles starts. </p>
<p>"You're plotting," Derek says, as Malia finishes her bacon. "You've got that look in your eyes." </p>
<p>"Nothing important," Peter says, waving off Derek's unspoken question. "Grocery shopping." </p>
<p>Malia looks up at that, asks, "More bacon?" </p>
<p>Peter can't help smiling at her. "More meat in general," he promises. </p>
<p>She grins back, then looks at Stiles, says, "You were right." Peter doesn't have time to ask just what, exactly, Stiles was right about, what doubts or concerns Malia might have had, because she looks back to him, then, and asks, "Where are you biting? Should I take off my shirt so it doesn't get blood on it?" </p>
<p>"Your neck," Stiles says, "so taking off the shirt's not a bad idea if it's one you like." </p>
<p>Even as Malia's taking off her shirt right there and then, Derek helping her as she gets one of her arms tangled up in the sleeve, Peter's turning to stare at Stiles with wide eyes.</p>
<p>Mate bites are for the right wrist, admitting people into the pack is done via the left wrist, just like Peter did with Lydia, with Danny. Only <i>family</i> members get real bites, joining a pack, and only those who are going to hold key positions in the pack get them on the neck. Malia might not know that, might not know what it means, and while Peter wants to bite before she has a chance to take it back, he has to know that she understands. </p>
<p>"Derek's your second," Stiles says, nodding in Derek's direction as Derek folds up Malia's shirt and places it on the counter. "Malia's your daughter and she's just as pragmatic as you, maybe even moreso because she doesn't find joy in the politics the way you do. You trust no one so much as you trust family; did you really think I wouldn't figure out that you'd want Malia as your executioner?" </p>
<p>"Stiles told me I was your kid a long time ago," Malia says. "Wouldn't tell me how he knew but you and I share a lot of the same base scent, just like we do with Derek. Even if he hadn't told me, I would've figured it out eventually. And Stiles has been teaching me about packs. I know what you used to do. Killing doesn't bother me. You'll both have to teach me the things that lead up to that point but I can handle the actual killing by myself." </p>
<p>The moment that Lydia whispered Malia's name in his ear, Peter's been dreaming of this. He's been longing to have his daughter with him, by him, has wanted to teach her about their family and their history and where they come from. He's wanted to see her shifted, wanted to curl up with her on cold nights and let them keep each other warm. He thought he'd have Scott in the way, thought he'd have to try and persuade Malia to see him as something more than Scott's worst nightmare -- and Stiles has been there all along, teaching her, telling her things, keeping her safe and allowing her to flourish as she is, not as the person Scott wants her to be. </p>
<p>He has so much to thank Stiles for that sometimes Peter thinks he could spend an eternity attempting to do so and always come up short. </p>
<p>Instead, Peter presses a kiss to Stiles' hair and goes around the counter. Malia bares her throat, eyes, fixed down. </p>
<p>"You're sure?" Peter asks. </p>
<p>"Yes," Malia says. "Yeah. I am. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Stiles helps Peter to the couch while the bond settles, before disappearing upstairs to get something to wipe off Peter's face and Malia's neck. Derek doesn't bother helping Malia move herself; he picks her up in a bridal carry and lays her down on the couch, on her side, head on Peter's lap and bite mark bared to the air as it starts to slowly heal over. Peter buries one hand in Malia's hair, strokes over her shoulder with the other. By the time Stiles comes skidding into the living room, Malia's whine-purring every so often. </p>
<p>Stiles drops to his knees on the floor between Peter's legs, reaches up to wipe off Peter's chin, then bends to clean Malia's throat, dabbing at the thin trails of blood leaking out from the bite mark. "How you feeling, Mal?" he asks, softly. </p>
<p>"Dunno," she says. Peter opens his eyes, looks down at Malia. "Not -- in a bad way," she says. "Just -- words." </p>
<p>Stiles smiles down at her, looks over the back of the couch and tilts his head for Derek to join them from where he's been hovering near the kitchen. Derek rolls his eyes but does as directed, bringing Malia's shirt with him. He set the shirt down on the coffee table and then picks up Malia's feet and sits down at the other end of the couch, back to the armrest as he faces the rest of them, Malia's feet on his lap. </p>
<p>Peter reaches out, feels the pack bonds humming in the back of his mind, anchored in his chest, deep ties wound around the wolf, and <i>glories</i> in the feeling of pack, of family, of home. His bonds to Derek and Malia are both strong, Derek's just that touch more anchored, more rooted -- probably a result of their familiarity. His bond to Malia, settling fast, feels good, more wild than the others and all the more fierce for it, the taste of snapping fangs and cold howls in winter moonlight behind everything that they are, together. </p>
<p>"I don't want to ruin this," Derek says, "but you said you had bad news." </p>
<p>Stiles makes a face, wrinkling his nose and scrunching up his eyes a little. He sets the damp, bloodied cloth on the coffee table, leans up against Peter's leg and rests his cheek on Peter's knee, one hand lifted up to keep skin contact with Malia. </p>
<p>"I'll start with Satomi," Stiles says. "She called to let us know she'd gotten word from some of her allies out east. Apparently there's a mass migration of assassins on their way out west. No one's saying that California's their destination but, I mean, of course it'd be here." </p>
<p>"Assassins?" Derek asks, incredulous. "Coming here? <i>Why</i>?" </p>
<p>Stiles shrugs one shoulder. "Satomi didn't say. I don't think she knows, or that her allies know. But someone told her that the Chemist is prepping to leave his labs for the first time in months, and the Mute's passed up a lucrative bounty in Europe that he normally would've been guaranteed to take. He wouldn't do that unless there was something more profitable on offer." </p>
<p>Those are names -- titles, really -- that Peter hasn't heard since well before the fire. Even then, they were mostly used as boogeymen to scare young shifters, people worse than even hunters. It explains the sudden, irrational fear gripping Derek and the complete lack of care from Malia. Derek was told stories of killers like the Chemist as a child. Malia never was. </p>
<p>"There are supernatural assassins?" she asks, instead, turning a little so she can take Stiles' hand in hers, looking up at Peter with a frown at the same time. "They -- do they kill humans?" </p>
<p>"Sometimes," Peter says. "Not often. Bounties on supernatural creatures are higher, and people who become killers of the supernatural like the challenge of going after someone with heightened senses and reflexes, or magical defenses." He looks at Stiles, asks, "Do we know when they're going to arrive?" </p>
<p>Stiles shakes his head. "Satomi just said that her allies told her they were moving slow. No idea why they're presumably coming here or when they'll rock into town if we <i>are</i> the destination, but at the pace she was talking about? It wouldn't be before mid-summer, maybe even this fall. I made some calls, asked a few people I know to keep an eye out for them." Peter raises an eyebrow at the bloodthirsty grin that comes over Stiles' face and Stiles says, "I called Bee-Bee. She and Will are gonna set trigger-wards up along the Mississippi. She's also making plans with some of the other high witches for the Rockies. I was thinking of asking the Cascade Coven to do some scrying for us, see if they can figure out what's going on, but I wanted to check with you first. Scrying's so inaccurate that they might come up with something else completely unrelated, something -- personal." </p>
<p>At the mention of trigger-wards, Derek's eyebrows had both lifted in surprise. They'd gone even higher at Stiles' casual reference to <i>other</i> high witches, and his lips had parted in complete shock at the casual way Stiles mentioned asking the coven for a favour as if he doesn't expect to be refused. </p>
<p>"Forewarned is forearmed," Peter says, trying to hide the smile at Derek's reactions. "Better to ask and have a chance of knowledge than not take the risk at all. What did your mage say?" </p>
<p>Stiles' amusement dissipates as the storm of ozone in his scent gathers in large, swirling waves that make being near Stiles feel like sitting in the eye of a hurricane. Malia purrs, a little, feeling it, and Derek's scent calms enough for Peter to notice. </p>
<p>"Solé said the dead are talking," Stiles says, bluntly, eyes going Spark-white. Derek whines, a tiny noise that sounds like it slipped out against his will, and Malia rolls over, inhales sharply when she sees Stiles' eyes, though the stunned overtone to her scent goes boneless and heavy in a split-second. </p>
<p>She slides off the couch, ends up in Stiles' lap, and she reaches up to touch his eyes. She pauses, before she does, when her fingers are still a few inches away from Stiles' face, waits for him to nod before pressing her fingertips to the dips below his eyes, to brush against his eyelashes. </p>
<p>"Is this why you feel different?" she asks, softly. "Is this why you're not like Scott?" </p>
<p>"Yes," Stiles says. "I'm what's called a Spark." </p>
<p>She stares a moment longer, then curls up in Stiles' lap, butting her head under his chin, squirming a little until Stiles lifts his arms and wraps them tight around her. They're both pressed up to Peter's legs; Derek moves, once it's clear that Malia's not going to be budged, until he's leaning against Peter, until Peter's got one hand resting on the back of Derek's neck. </p>
<p>"Sparks are special," Peter says. </p>
<p>Malia huffs but doesn't move. "Stiles has always been special," she says. </p>
<p>Peter chuckles, says, "Yes, he has." He sits there, for a few minutes, enjoying the closeness of the pack -- <i>his</i> pack -- but soon enough the smile fades and he asks Stiles, "The dead are talking?" </p>
<p>"More like -- they've been agitated," Stiles says, rubbing his chin on Malia's hair to scent her then tilting his head so he can look at Peter and Derek. "She hasn't heard them but some of her -- uh. Well. Let's just say there's a growing swarm centred around Beacon Hills. The timing's too coincidental to be anything not related to Satomi's message." </p>
<p>"But that's not what set the wards off," Peter says, thinking. "You left before they called and Malia said she had a scent." </p>
<p>Stiles' eyes flick to Derek. He bites his bottom lip, the light coming off of him brightening and flickering like candle flames at night, shadows long and heavy. Malia mutters something about finally being <i>warm</i> and tries to burrow deeper into Stiles, even as Derek looks both terrified and captivated. </p>
<p>"What is it?" Derek asks. "You're looking at me, which -- what is it?" </p>
<p>"The scent Mal picked up," Stiles says, slowly, wincing like he knows he's about to say something that no one wants to hear, "the person who set off the wards. Derek, I -- I'm sorry, but it's Kate." </p>
<p>Derek's scent disappears in a flood of pure, animal fear. Stiles scoots along the floor, carefully cradling Malia, and puts one hand on Derek's knee. Derek flinches but Stiles doesn't move, as though he's waiting for Derek to realise through the terror that Stiles is the one who touched him. Peter, his hand already on Derek's neck, pulls his nephew close, lets the feeling of alpha join the feeling of Spark, until Derek's calmed down enough that he doesn't seem as though he's going to be trying to flee anytime soon. </p>
<p>Peter waits for Derek's heart to settle -- fast but not racing -- and then says, "How? I killed her, ripped her throat out with my -- <i>oh</i>. Of course. With my <i>claws</i>."</p>
<p>"And a deep enough scratch can cause someone to turn just like a bite," Stiles says, finishing Peter's thought. "Chris took the body away but I wouldn't be surprised if Gerard got involved after that. Either way, whoever it was didn't ensure she stuck to their stupid code." He looks at Derek, then, pokes Derek's knee until Derek looks at him. "I'll finish it myself, Der. None of us will let her so much as <i>look</i> at you. She won't get close enough to touch you." </p>
<p>"You can only finish her if you get there before I do," Peter tells Stiles. Stiles meets his gaze and Peter's wolf <i>howls</i>. "I suppose," he says, begrudgingly, though he knows Stiles can feel glee and want shiver through their bond, "that we could do it together." </p>
<p>Stiles does, after all, owe him a fuck on someone's lifeblood. How fitting that it would be Kate when it was her actions that ended up, however tangentially, bringing them together. </p>
<p>Stiles grins at him, baring his teeth, and Malia mutters, "You two smell like sex." </p>
<p>Peter snorts but tries to tamp down the desire he feels, the need that's glittering like some of Stiles' Spark up and down his spine. He turns back to Derek, and the look on his nephew's face is enough to push away all thoughts of burying his dick and teeth in Stiles. "We can make it hurt," Peter tells Derek. "If you want, we can make her <i>beg</i>." </p>
<p>"I just -- I just want her gone," Derek says. "For good. <i>Please</i>." </p>
<p>"She's crossed the wards. She's in our territory and we have the right to defend it however we want," Stiles tells Peter. His lips twist in disappointment as he turns to Peter and tells him, "You and Mal could go hunting; I can keep Derek company. Malia has her scent." </p>
<p>Peter instinctively wants to refuse, but he puts his desire aside and considers it. Much to his disappointment, it's the plan that makes the most sense. Stiles could probably kill her right here, right now, using his Spark, but Peter wants the joy of separating her head from her body himself, wants to feel it, wants to see it, wants to <i>know</i>, without a shadow of doubt, that she's dead this time and for good. It would give him a chance to see how well Malia hunts, as well, and cement her place as pack executioner with the kind of kill that will garner instant respect from other packs: an Argent; a shifter; someone who's wronged their pack in so many, many ways. </p>
<p>Leaving Stiles with Derek, too, proves that Peter values his nephew above even hunting with his mate. Should Kate somehow make it past both him and Malia, Stiles will be all that stands between her and Derek. Peter remembers all too well the look on Stiles' face, the pure <i>hatred</i> in his scent, as he claimed that his uncontrolled magic would have obliterated her back when she was slithering around Peter's old pack and planning their murder. If Stiles came face-to-face with Kate Argent now, with his magic under his control and focused on protecting Derek, then she would die <i>suffering</i>. It might almost be a mercy to meet her end at Peter and Malia's fangs and claws, rather than the Spark. </p>
<p>Malia uncurls, tilts her head upwards to look at Peter and Derek. Her eyes are gleaming blue, her teeth bared, and she's never looked so much like a Hale, like <i>Peter</i>. It fills Peter's heart with a precious fondness and he reaches down before he realises he's moving, cupping her cheek and then wrapping his hand around the back of her neck. </p>
<p>"Anything planned for the rest of the day?" he asks her. </p>
<p>"No, alpha," she says. "Does that mean we're going hunting?" </p>
<p>Peter meets Stiles' eyes and Stiles says, "I'll barnacle myself to Derek and text Lydia. We'll wait here." </p>
<p>Derek, when Peter looks at him, still seems unsettled, tense, and though he's watching them all with wide eyes, he swallows and nods. "Thank you," he says. </p>
<p>"No thanks needed," Peter says. "You're pack." </p>
<p>Peter stands up, ruffles Derek's hair, and as Derek's halfheartedly trying to fix his hair, Peter helps Malia stand up, passing over her shirt, then Stiles. He wraps Stiles up in his arms, presses his forehead to Stiles', brushes a kiss over Stiles' lips. "Take care of him," Peter says. </p>
<p>Stiles clicks his tongue against his teeth, says, "Of course." He leans in, ostensibly for another hug, but takes the opportunity to whisper in Peter's ear, barely above breath and with a hint of warmth that speaks of the Spark muffling his words. "Malia tracked her scent to the tunnels," he says, "so start there, but pick up some rattlesnake venom from the vault first. And be careful, she has two berserkers with her." </p>
<p>Peter's not even going to bother asking how Stiles knew they had rattlesnake venom in the vault. He smiles, instead, and says, "Thanks for the warning, dear-heart," as they separate. "There's food here. You're all right to cook? I'd rather not have anyone we don't know coming to the house until Malia and I get back."</p>
<p>"I'll feed Derek and Lydia and make sure there's enough for you and Malia when you get back," Stiles says. He looks at Malia, who's straightening her shirt, then back to Peter, and tells them, "Happy hunting," even as he's dropping onto the couch and cuddling up to Derek. </p>
<p>Peter stands there, just for a moment, and drinks in the sight of his mate, of his nephew -- and then he and Malia leave.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Malia looks puzzled when Peter heads for the car, but she follows him and gets in on the passenger side before saying, "If she's still at the house, she'll hear us drive up." </p>
<p>"We have a stop to make first," Peter says. "Ordinarily I wouldn't chance this in the middle of the day, but Stiles said we needed rattlesnake venom and there's no such thing as overkill when it comes to hunting down an Argent." He glances both ways to make sure it's clear to pull out of the parking lot and onto the road; once he does, he asks Malia, "Did he tell you what kind of shifter she turns into?" </p>
<p>Malia shakes her head even as her scent turns contemplative. "She smelled like -- fur. Short fur. Nothing like wolf or coyote or fox." </p>
<p>Peter hums lightly, thinks that of course Malia wouldn't be familiar with the scent of a werejaguar. It's rare for a werejaguar to manifest outside of Mexican borders, rarer still that they ever leave Mexico and Central America, and practically unheard of for one to venture this far north. He's vaguely surprised, actually, that Argent made it to Beacon Hills, especially knowing that she'd have to sneak through the Calaveras' territory; they keep a very close eye on shifter movements along the southern US border. Peter's even heard that a few of their family members and allies work for both Mexican and American border patrol and customs, lethal and all too quick to kill but clever enough in their own way. Argent would know how best to evade other hunters, though, wouldn't she. </p>
<p>"Rattlesnake venom works against werejaguars," Peter says. "It's a mystical thing, goes back to the Aztec creation myth of Ometeotl. Legend has it that Quetzalcoatl, the serpent god, was at war with Tezcatlipoca, the jaguar god -- no one's sure, now, why, exactly. There's one myth that says they each had responsibility for the earth for a period of time, except that Quetzalcoatl destroyed Tezcatlipoca's vision of the earth, and, in revenge, when it was Quetzalcoatl's turn to recreate the earth, Tezcatlipoca engineered its ruination. There's another, that Quetzalcoatl, as god of the sun, was furious when Tezcatlipoca ascended into the heavens as god of the night, and knocked him out of the sky, earning Tezcatlipoca's eternal enmity. Whatever the truth of it, their rivalry means that things sacred to Quetzalcoatl work against werejaguars -- Tezcatlipoca's children." </p>
<p>"And Quetzalcoatl was the serpent god, so -- snake venom," Malia says. Peter thinks that Derek would ask for the full stories, that Lydia would delve into books to find out the truth of it, wonders how Danny would react, what he might do, but Malia's <i>his</i> child. She just says, "How do we use it?"</p>
<p>Peter smiles, can't help it. It's more than just her acceptance of what he's telling her, more than her trust that Peter knows what he's talking about and what he's doing. It's something deeper, something that speaks from like to like: they have a tool, no need to know why or how it works, only how to utilise it.</p>
<p>"I know we'd both prefer to use claws," Peter says, "but I won't take the chance of either of us getting hurt by the venom. We'll coat some knives, introduce the venom to her bloodstream that way. She'll weaken rapidly and her healing will be impaired; once she's hit we can ditch the knives and go after her the way we want."</p>
<p>"And you have venom stored somewhere?" Malia asks. "Just -- just ready and waiting?" </p>
<p>He turns onto the road leading to the school. Malia sees where they are and frowns but doesn't say anything, just turns her attention back to Peter as she waits for an answer. </p>
<p>"There's a vault," Peter says. "The main Hale vault in town; only Hales, mates, and emissaries can get inside, either through using claws or making a small blood offering. A wandering mage set that spell up for us a long time ago. It's where we keep our most prized possessions," he says, tone turning melancholic, "but also what we might need in case of an attack from other packs, other tribes, other clans. Money, documents, weapons -- and venom, last time I checked." He changes the subject, then, asks, "Have you ever used a gun?" </p>
<p>"Stiles said he'd teach me this summer," Malia says, reluctance blooming along the edges of her scent to match the grimace on her face. "Guns like the sheriff carries and ones that his dad used in the army. He said he didn't think I'd like them because of how loud they are but he said as long as I knew how to use one in case I ever needed to, I'd be okay." She pauses, then says, quietly, as if telling Peter a secret, "I don't think Stiles likes them very much. His scent always goes funny when he talks about them. I don't know why." </p>
<p>If Peter hadn't already heard the list of ways that Stiles' mother tried to kill him, this is the moment where he'd be wondering if the Spark healed gunshot wounds so thoroughly that there'd be no sign of them left on the skin. Small mercies, he thinks. Very small mercies, indeed. </p>
<p>"Stiles said that Argent has berserkers with her," Peter says. "The easiest way to kill those is by gunshot; one right to the face usually takes care of the problem. I'm not a marksman but I can hit the face. Once the berserkers are out of the way --" </p>
<p>"What are berserkers?" Malia asks, interrupting him. "Is this something I should've known about before now?" </p>
<p>Peter shakes his head. "No," he says. "Definitely not. They're a Germanic myth, one I only know because I spent a good portion of my childhood learning everything I could about this world from people much smarter than me. All you need to know right now is that they were once people, but they put on the face of a bear -- a skull, a bone-mask, even just a bear's pelt -- and became the animal. Most of the old stories say that the people who underwent the change were intent on righting some great wrong done to them or their family. They'd be the only survivor of a massacre, or there would be a war they were badly losing, something like that, and they'd take on the spirit of a bear to triumph over their enemies at the cost of their own lives -- they achieve their goal and they die as the magic fades, or they get killed along the way."</p>
<p>"If they're Germanic," Malia asks, "and they're bears, how did Argent get some on her side?" </p>
<p>"A very good question," Peter admits, amused at the way Malia preens. "I'm not sure. Werejaguars have a reputation for magic so I suppose it's possible that she could have made them, or tricked people into making the sacrifice on their own -- but the 'how' isn't important. Killing them is. We'll have to take them out before going after her." </p>
<p>Malia nods, an intent look on her face. Peter thinks that she probably never looks half this focused at school. No, Malia's coyote at heart, wild deep in her bones, and matters of survival will always garner more attention than history or chemistry. </p>
<p>"Berserkers with the gun, venom into Argent, then we rip her apart." Malia pauses, nods again, just once, firmly. "Good plan. Simple. I like it." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Peter parks the car a couple blocks down from the school; there's nowhere he could park on school grounds that would leave them any privacy, and within one block might be noticeable if people are watching -- Peter could be dropping off Malia, going into the office with her to explain her absence -- but they might look suspicious if Malia comes <i>back</i> with him. Besides, some of the students who didn't receive parking passes park on the streets, and the congestion from all those vehicles parallel parking along subdivision roads and next to driveways dies down farther away. Parking here, closer to the administration building and near a couple offices and businesses run from people's homes, gives them leeway if they need to come up with an excuse. </p>
<p>As they get out of the car, Peter looks around, sees the curtains in one window fluttering a little, as if someone's hiding before they can be spotted. He internally rolls his eyes; Beacon Hills might be considered a small city but it has the attitude of a small town more than anything else. He pulls an empty backpack out of the trunk, passes it over to Malia, and takes out a battered old briefcase for himself, also empty. </p>
<p>"The entrance to the vault's changed over the years," he tells Malia, as he starts a brisk walk toward the school. She keeps pace with him, glancing around. She has good instincts -- being so aware of one's surroundings isn't something that can be trained into a person; it has to come from deeper, either natural wariness or some kind of hypervigilance most commonly born out of trauma -- but Peter will have to coach her to be less obvious about it. "When the Hales first settled in Beacon Hills, this was still part of the preserve. The entrance then was under a tree and wasn't much more than a hidden cache. As the city's grown, so has the vault."</p>
<p>"And now it's -- in the school?" Malia asks. She sounds incredulous and Peter can't blame her. He smiles, feeling her gaze on him, and she guesses, "No one else would ever think something that important would be in the school. It's a good hiding place." She frowns, though, and sounds reluctant as she adds, "Not something to be done in broad daylight, though. That's why you said you wouldn't normally come here." </p>
<p>Peter makes a noise of agreement, says, "But we can't wait for nightfall. Most enemies, yes, but Kate Argent? No." He leads Malia to the large stone sign in front of the building. He gestures for Malia to look and points at the grate on the side of the sign. "Decorative," he says, "so no one looks at it twice. There's one on the other side, too, but only the one on the left works." Malia nods and Peter releases his claws, inserts them into the grate and turns it to the left, then back to the right. He takes a step back, Malia echoing his movements, and the sign turns; for being brick and stone, it moves fast and doesn't make much of a sound. "Our family's very clever," Peter says. He can scent the instant self-doubt bleed through her scent and Peter says, "You're <i>my</i> child. That makes you more intelligent than most everyone else in this town without even trying." She doesn't seem to believe him, so as they're going down the steps and the sign's returning to its normal position, he asks, "Do you think <i>Stiles</i> would waste time with anyone stupid?"</p>
<p>Using Stiles seems to work. Malia's scent turns thoughtful, considering, and then she looks around the vault and her eyes go wide. </p>
<p>"Whoa," she breathes. "This is <i>amazing</i>." </p>
<p>It might not seem much to look at, just concrete and shelves, a long table down one side, but the fact that it's here, that it <i>exists</i>, would be enough even if no one ever saw the contents of the shelves. Peter inhales deep, smells dust, old dried blood, and the faintest hint of -- something else, almost vulpine , with a tinge of ozone at the edges. Hm. </p>
<p>Peter ignores that for now, heads straight for the shelving unit on the left, picks up three cases and takes them to the table. Malia's looking around; she makes a noise when she gets to the end of the vault nearer to the high school basement. He turns to see what's caught her attention and Peter smiles, a little, sad thing, when he sees that she's holding a basketball, names scrawled all over it in black Sharpie. </p>
<p>"I won the state championship with that ball," Peter says. </p>
<p>"I thought you said the vault was filled with prized possessions," Malia says. "Why is this here?" </p>
<p>Peter goes over to her, points at some of the other things on that shelf. "The first story Cora ever wrote. My father -- your grandfather -- took that knife off a Nazi when he was fighting to liberate France. My grandmother's favourite pendant. This gem -- part of a dowry brought into the family by someone so far back I don't even know how many generations they're removed from us." He reaches for a book behind everything, leather-bound and covered in dust. "The earliest records of our pack," he says, and cracks open the book. Dust flies off the pages; Malia sneezes but then looks closer, eyes following the path Peter's finger takes down the page. "Sometimes the things most precious to us have nothing to do with weapons or money." </p>
<p>"But we have that, too," Malia says. "Right?" </p>
<p>"Right," Peter says, smiling, as he puts the book back down. He heads for a filing cabinet to the right but gestures back at the table, says, "I need to pull something out from the files and then get the guns and the venom, but I've got the cases with the knives out already. Pick a few you like." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Twenty minutes later, they leave the vault. Malia's got three knives and the jar of snake venom in her backpack, Peter has two handguns and a manila folder in his briefcase, and they've both left bloody thumbprints in the genealogy book sitting on one of the vault shelves, Malia as a new entry and Peter as a new alpha. </p>
<p>Malia's been quiet; when they get back in the car, Peter asks her what she's thinking about. </p>
<p>"Would you have told me?" she asks. "That I'm your daughter, I mean. Stiles told me, and he and Lydia told Derek, and I think Scott knows, too. You must have known. You didn't smell of shock when Stiles mentioned me being yours." </p>
<p>"Lydia informed me," Peter admits, as he turns the car on and pulls away from the curb, heading towards the parking lot on the northern end of the preserve. It'll be a hike to get from there to the ruins of his old house, but better his car is seen on the other end of the preserve -- if anyone even notices. Beacon Hills is quite remarkable in how ignorant its human residents seem to be. "When Stiles was possessed, she used it as a very effective bargaining chip to get me to help them. Stiles and I talked about it afterwards; he said that he'd told you." Peter exhales deeply. "I was worried about Scott. You fell in with him and his pack quickly and I assumed that as long as you were with Scott, you wouldn't respond to any overtures I'd be willing to make. I never realised -- I thought he was your alpha. I didn't realise <i>Stiles</i> was." </p>
<p>Malia turns in her seat to face him. It reminds him so much of Stiles, the way she's sitting, the look on her face, that it's no surprise, now that he's had time to think about it, that Malia would also <i>anchor</i> to him. </p>
<p>"Lydia said you were Satan in a v-neck," Malia says. Peter snorts. "Yeah," Malia says, "I didn't believe that, either. Stiles told me I should make my own decision about you but that you weren't as bad as Lydia said. Scott just told me to stay away from you. But -- if it wasn't for Scott, you would've told me?" </p>
<p>"Eventually, yes," Peter says. "Sooner than I'd been planning on before, definitely. You seemed all right with your adoptive father, though; I didn't want to upset that." </p>
<p>She huffs. "Only 'cause of Stiles." Peter gives her a frown, asks her to explain, and Malia shrugs. "Stiles was the one who took me shopping. Dad paid, but Stiles helped me pick out things I liked. He helped me study so I wouldn't get held back at school. He let me sleep with him and anchored my shift. Dad -- didn't like me sneaking out. But he respects the sheriff, so he let me keep doing it. He said it made him feel better to know that at least I was at the sheriff's house if I wasn't home." She purses her lips, cocks her head, says, "I never understood that. The sheriff's never at his house. But I wasn't going to tell dad." </p>
<p>The instant flash-flood of familiar rage pours through Peter at the mention of Stiles' father. He calms himself, pushes it back, and sees Malia looking at him with narrowed, shifter-blue eyes. </p>
<p>"You don't like him either," she says. </p>
<p>"No," Peter replies. "No, I really don't. But we won't have to worry about him for much longer." </p>
<p>Malia cocks her head, eyes fading back to brown. "You're going to kill him? Is Stiles okay with that?" </p>
<p>"He'll be sad, I think," Peter says, "but not angry." </p>
<p>"Stiles never smells angry when he talks about the sheriff," Malia says. "Sad, like you said. Sometimes like he hurts. But not angry." She pauses, says, cautiously, "Sometimes when the sheriff saw me at his house, he smelled angry about it. More at Stiles than me. Stiles said it was frustration but I know what that smells like and it wasn't that." Her nose wrinkles in memory as she adds, "Mostly the sheriff just smells like alcohol." </p>
<p>Peter smiles, a little, at the scent of repulsion coming from Malia. He feels that himself when he thinks about the sheriff's stench, that cloying, heavy weight of whiskey and bourbon clogging up his nostrils and coating the back of his throat, the scents of shame and need melding with sweat and vomit. When added to the sight of bloodshot eyes and the sound of empty bottles clanking together in the recycling bin every Thursday night as Stiles dragged out the garbage for the next day's collection, Peter doesn't know how the humans around the sheriff haven't said or done anything. By now they should've dragged him to AA meetings, held his position at work hostage to getting clean, even threatened taking Stiles away -- but the man's either good at being a functional alcoholic or no one cares. Peter doesn't know which is worse. </p>
<p>"He never did anything to you when you were over?" Peter asks. "Or said anything?" </p>
<p>Malia shakes her head, says, "No, nothing. He used to make faces when he saw me eat and I think he said things to Stiles about it when I wasn't around, but he never made me leave or told me not to come back. I wouldn't have listened. I think he knew that. He may not have known how much I was over there, though, since I mostly stayed in Stiles' room. The rest of the house stinks just like the sheriff." </p>
<p>The worn-in reek of alcohol <i>fills</i> the Stilinski house, enough to outweigh even the sensations of loss and deep, bitter grief embedded into the walls. The only saving grace is Stiles' room, which carries some of the grief but none of the bitterness, is mostly just a reflection of the top layer of Stiles' scent, though there's an underlying tang of medication and nightmares and come, a hint of shifter that speaks to Stiles' pack and a touch, since the nogitsune, of fox. </p>
<p>Stiles' presence, too, in a place where he feels comfortable, where he's mostly himself, fills the space like it's banishing every bad thought and smell from existence. Peter thinks about the way his townhouse already carries such a deep impression of Stiles' Spark-scent that it won't ever fade, about their future home and how he imagines <i>it</i> will smell, with their scents twined together through every room, into every piece of furniture, and can't help the smile that crosses, lightning-quick, across his face. </p>
<p>"He won't need to go back ever again," Peter says. "The sheriff kicked him out on Sunday. That's why there are all those boxes in my living room; we picked up everything Stiles wanted and took it back to mine. He's still trying to find time to unpack. Actually, he might get Derek to help him with that, now that I think about it. It'll help keep Derek's mind off of Argent." </p>
<p>"Why is he afraid of her?" Malia asks. "He smelled like fear. A lot of fear. Is that why you and Stiles decided to kill her right away?" </p>
<p>It's not Peter's story to tell, no matter how much he wants Malia to understand how <i>evil</i> Kate Argent is. Derek will tell her, if and when he decides he's ready, the way that he never got the chance to tell Peter -- or Stiles, apparently, who figured it out all on his own, putting together the clues of the fire and of things both Peter and Derek said, coming up with the correct interpretation of events. There are things he <i>can</i> tell Malia, though, and those will have to be enough for now. </p>
<p>"I already tried once," Peter says, "and I never like to leave a job unfinished. But she's the one responsible for killing the rest of the Hales. She's the one who set the fire and burned the house down with my old pack inside." </p>
<p>Malia doesn't ask for details. Most likely she doesn't really care. "Scott talks about Allison sometimes," she says, instead. "I thought -- he said the Argents were good people but Kate doesn't sound like a good person." </p>
<p>Peter taps his thumb on the steering wheel as he waits for the light to change. "Scott was in love with Allison," he says, bluntly, "and unwilling to see her family as anything other than extensions of her. Her grandfather manipulated him, threatened his mother, and almost killed his best friend. Her aunt burned packs to death all over the country, her mother tried to kill <i>Scott</i> and committed suicide when she was bitten rather than embrace being a shifter, and her father, while the best of a bad lot, still has a -- colourful past, let's say, full of murder and cruelty. Allison herself nearly killed two of Derek's betas and probably would have if her father hadn't let them go. Scott's a child, blind to the realities of the world. His mother coddled him and Stiles protected him. He's the worst sort of wolf to ascend to alpha because he <i>resents</i> the wolf -- and most of that is due to Allison and his belief that her family would've welcomed him with open arms if he was human. Perhaps with her dead and Stiles in a different pack, he'll grow up."</p>
<p>"Scott's having sex with Kira now," Malia says, hesitantly, "but he still talks about Allison. He still -- he smells like a mate in mourning when he talks about her. It's not fair to Kira." </p>
<p>"You're right," Peter says. He glances over at Malia, narrows his eyes when he sees her studying him. "Where are you going with that?" </p>
<p>Malia bites her bottom lip. Peter wonders if that's yet one more thing she's picked up from Stiles or some habit all her own. He wishes he'd known her as a child, as a baby, wishes that Talia hadn't taken the memories of Corinne from him -- but the past is set in stone and he has a chance to get to know Malia now. He relishes the opportunity. </p>
<p>"She should join our pack," Malia says. "She'd be safer with us. She's -- not like us. Not like Scott, either, just -- soft. She wouldn't survive through a harsh winter on her own but she could den with us. She smells like thunder. Thunder's loud and strong enough to shake trees from the ground but it never comes on its own. We could be her lightning." She pauses, adds, "Stiles smells like lightning, sometimes."</p>
<p>"Stiles and I had discussed inviting her to join," Peter says, considering Malia's words. It would be unwise to ignore a coyote's practicality and Malia's instincts are ingrained in her to the point where they override her human understanding of things, Peter thinks. It's not a surprise that Malia's instincts would tell her that Kira would do better with them than with Scott, based on what Peter's seen of the way McCall leads his pack. The only question is if <i>Kira</i> would agree. "How would you convince her to join us? To tear herself away from her boyfriend?" </p>
<p>The parking lot's empty when Peter pulls in. He has time to park, turn the car off, and get out before Malia replies. "Her mom's been talking to her about training," Malia says, as she scrambles to follow Peter's example and get out of the car as well, joining Peter at the trunk. "Sending her away. Kira doesn't want to go and not just because of Scott. I think we're the first time she's ever felt like pack? So if we convinced Mrs. Yukimura that Kira could get training here, she wouldn't make Kira leave." </p>
<p>"And you think Kira would be grateful enough to leave McCall?" Peter asks, as he zips open Malia's backpack, uncapping the jar of venom carefully. "We shouldn't hold the promise of training as payment for joining us." </p>
<p>"Scott doesn't think she needs training," Malia says, peering around Peter to watch as he dips the knives into the venom and lays them out to dry on the ground. "We'd be taking her and her mom seriously. That would mean a lot to both of them. But -- I mean, can't we just tell them what Stiles is? I don't know what Sparks are but you said they're special. They'd join us for someone special, right?" </p>
<p>Peter makes a little noise as he caps the jar back up, puts it back in the backpack. "Possibly," he says. He moves his attention to the briefcase, clicks the snaps open and checks that the guns are loaded and the safeties are on even though he did the same back in the vault. "We have to remember, though, that Noshiko believed at one point, still might believe, that Stiles has been tainted by the nogitsune's possession. That might override any instinct she has to submit to the Spark, and if she's not willing to bend to Stiles, there's no <i>way</i> she'd bare the throat to me." He tucks the guns into the waistband of his jeans, bends to make sure the blades have dried before he picks them up, handing them over to Malia. She gives him a surprised look and Peter merely smiles, says, "I want to see how you do." </p>
<p>She tilts her chin up in answer to his unstated challenge and asks, "What next?" </p>
<p>"Now," Peter says, "we go hunting." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Peter grew up in the preserve; it's changed over the years and he hasn't spent enough time familiarising himself with the way the land has subtly evolved, but the forest is still the most comfortable place for his wolf. When they walk into the trees he takes a deep breath, holds it, savours the scents in his nose and the taste in his throat: soil still damp from the morning; detritus of animals and birds; the intertwining smell of dozens of types of trees and bushes and moss; the peculiarly unique flavour of North Californian air, too far from the sea to carry any salt but not farmland-fertile enough to taste of growth potential, something windswept and metallic and smoky in it instead. </p>
<p>He tells Malia to take point and lead them to the house, and Peter follows her, watching as she moves with sure steps through the preserve, one knife in each hand, settling into an easy lope despite the steel-toed boots she's wearing. Peter wonders if Stiles helped her pick the shoes out, too, and has to bite back a grin at the thought. The pair of them move off the beaten tracks and blend in well enough with the foliage, not that he scents or hears anyone else around. It's a quiet day, still slightly before lunch, and the breaks in the tree cover let in beams of sunlight that remind Peter of Stiles. </p>
<p>Someday, they're going to hunt together. Someday, they won't need to move on from the kill quickly, like with Deucalion, and they won't need to be merciless in defense of their pack, like Argent and her berserkers. Someday, Stiles is going to be here, hunting right next to Peter, so deadly and so restrained about it, and they're going to bask in it. </p>
<p>"You must be thinking of Stiles," Malia murmurs, just loud enough for Peter to hear. "You stink again." </p>
<p>"Sorry," Peter says, though his heart skips. He's not sorry at all. </p>
<p>Malia chuffs in his direction, leads them over a fallen tree, half-rotten, and slows down a little as they approach the perimeter of the clearing around the old house. They stick to the grass and mud, avoid the branches and tree roots, and when Malia crouches behind a large shrub that smells of juniper, Peter does the same. He doesn't remember juniper bushes from before; it looks old, though, and large, as do the others scattered in this area, as though they've been here for years. </p>
<p>Malia tilts her head back, opens her mouth, and breathes in. She closes her eyes, frowning, as she does it again. "The scent's still strong and still centred on the house. I don't think she left."</p>
<p>"You and Stiles tracked her here, what, no more than a couple hours ago?" Peter half-asks, though Malia nods, eyes open and fixed on him. "She might be a shifter now, but she still thinks like a hunter. She'll be using the time to set up a base of operations; hunters always do and Argents, especially, are thorough about it. She won't leave until she knows she has a safe place to come back to. Traps, cameras, multiple exits, hidden weapons -- she'll make the place lethal." </p>
<p>Malia's lips quirk, and she says, "All those things you said take time, which means she hasn't left because she's still working on it. We should go after her now before she has time to finish. What's the plan?" </p>
<p>"Entrances to the tunnels are beneath the house," Peter says. "They were blocked in during the fire, though, and to the best of my knowledge, they're still caved in. No doubt she's working on getting those exits cleared, but if her scent's fresh, as you said, she hasn't gotten that done yet, which means --" </p>
<p>"-- if she's in the basement and we're between her and the stairs back up to the house, she'll be trapped," Malia says, finishing Peter's thought. Her eyes gleam blue, presumably at the thought of having their prey already boxed in, and by her own doing, no less. </p>
<p>Peter nods, glances back at the house. "We'll go in -- <i>carefully</i>. Me first." Malia smells ready to argue; Peter cuts her off before she can. "I know the house best. I'll be able to see if she's set any traps or got any cameras up and running already." He raises an eyebrow at Malia, who nods in reluctant understanding. "Keep close but be prepared for the gunshots; they'll be loud anyway but if we tackle the berserkers below ground, the noise will feel louder, constrained by the space." </p>
<p>Malia listens intently, head cocked and eyes fixed on the house. "I don't hear anything in the house," she says. </p>
<p>Kate Argent always was like some miserable little cockroach, scurrying about in the dark. "They'll be below, then, with her," Peter says. "Where it's dark and she can keep an eye on them." With a final scan of Malia, who looks calm but eager, Peter takes one of the guns out, clicks the safety off, and heads for the ruins of his old home. </p>
<p>There are so many memories twined in and around the house: wrestling with Talia on the ground out front; chasing the cubs in circles around the house; sitting on the porch steps after Paige but before the fire, yearning for connection with his family, his pack, but practically exiled by his sister. The steps on the porch creak under his weight; he pauses, tilts his side to listen for any movement inside the house. He doesn't hear anything but he still pushes the door open with his toe, waits outside for any kind of response before glancing for tripwires as he ducks inside, quick, just in case Argent's found a way to mask a berserker's scent and sounds. </p>
<p>He scans the room, tries to ignore the smells of terror and pain and guilt, so much guilt, as if Derek breathed it out onto every square inch of the place during those few months he squatted here. "Can you smell her?" he asks Malia. There's a scent that Peter doesn't recognise, that smells like the short fur that Malia mentioned, but he can't parse out much more than that; his nose is more focused on his family, too much effort expended trying to ignore the scent of death that permeates everything like a haunting. </p>
<p>"Fresh," Malia says. "She's here." </p>
<p>Peter heads for the basement, ignores the hole that he was buried in and climbed out of using Lydia's mind and Derek's blood, and strains his hearing. </p>
<p>Nothing. </p>
<p>Peter's nerves are on edge; there should be something, <i>anything</i>, some type of warning system. Kate's not stupid, she never would have been able to kill so many of his kind if she was, and leaving her back unprotected like this, trapping herself beneath the surface with no eyes upstairs is -- </p>
<p>Peter looks up, scans the ceiling again, the corners where walls come together, anything high up. He misses it on his second pass but shifts two steps to the side and a barely-visible glint of light catches his attention on his third scan. There's a small camera, not much bigger than a button, on the ceiling above the stairs, pointed right at the door, blending in with the blackened wood and grey ash. He gets Malia's attention, tilts his head in the camera's direction. Malia follows his gaze, then curses under her breath. She had been moving a little hunched over, keeping her steps quiet and her centre of gravity low, but she straightens up now, doesn't bother trying to be stealthy. </p>
<p>Peter does the same, strides right over to the basement door and heads down the steps, beta-shifted and ready for anything. He hears the hum of a generator, absently takes note of the lights hanging from the walls, the plastic-chemical scent of car batteries and jumper cables, the copper-penny metallic taste of rusted blood. Apparently, even as a shifter, Argent's planning on using hunter torture techniques. Peter's desire to see her dead -- <i>again</i>, for good -- grows wings and takes flight. </p>
<p>As soon as he gets to the bottom of the stairs, a berserker swings at him. Peter shoots at its face, shattering the bones of its mask and leaving his own ears ringing. With the mask gone, the man below -- human, by the smell of him -- falls to the ground, limp and boneless like a puppet with its strings cut. Blood starts to trickle from the corners of his eyes, drips out of his ears; his heartbeat ends as abruptly as his muscles gave out. </p>
<p>"Loud," Malia complains in a mutter. "Ugh. Stiles was right; I don't like them." </p>
<p>"Fight smarter, not harder," Peter tells her. "If we have an advantage, we should always use it." </p>
<p>There's a slow clap coming from out of the darkness just beyond Peter's sight. "Spoken like a hunter," Kate Argent says, as she moves into the light. "Not something I expected from a mutt like you." </p>
<p>Malia, flanking him, snarls, but Peter studies the figure of Derek's nightmares, the former huntress who burnt the Hales almost out of existence. She's definitely a werejaguar, has their signature green eyes, the shorter fangs of a cat. She looks healthy, settled in her shift, and Peter <i>hates</i> that he gave her this gift when he was actually trying to end the wretched curse of her existence. He flashes his eyes, says, "You're not welcome on Hale territory, Argent." </p>
<p>Argent starts laughing. "So the great Peter Hale's come to chase me out? And here I thought you were dead."</p>
<p>"I thought the same of you," Peter says, baring his fangs. "I'm here to correct that mistake." </p>
<p>"Just like old times," Argent says, folding her arms over her chest and leaning her hip against a table that's just a couple wooden boards balanced across a few stacks of crates. The casual way she's standing, not even prepared for a fight, raises the hackles on Peter's neck; he growls, low, at the implied disrespect. "You, me, one easily manipulated teenager. I have to admit, I figured you would've brought the Stilinski kid with you instead of this chit -- gotten tired of him already? He always did seem a little too flighty for me. Cute, though, if a girl's bored enough." Her eyes flick from Peter to Malia, scan Malia top to toe. "This one looks feisty. Broken her in, yet?" </p>
<p>"I'm his <i>daughter</i>," Malia snarls. Peter doesn't take his eyes off of Argent but in the periphery of his vision, he sees Malia's eyes turn blue, hears the scratch of claws against silver. </p>
<p>Argent's eyes dip to Malia's hands, just for a second, but she's still smiling when she looks back up at Peter. "A daughter," she purrs. "How precious. Even more Hales to kill. So much ash of your family here, Peter; can you smell it? You'll be joining them soon enough, you and your kid, though I'll take you down first as thanks for turning me instead of killing me. If I'd burned my bridges without coming to see Derek and --" </p>
<p>Argent doesn't get to tell them just what she plans. Malia leaps at her, knives held out in front of her like extensions of her body. Argent dances to the side, her full beta-shift coming out at the threat. Her skin bleeds into a blue-purple pattern, the spread of dots and circles mimicking the markings of a real jaguar in everything but colour. They cover all of the skin that Peter sees: face; hands; throat; even the thin skin of her feet, bare in a place where she apparently thought she was safe. </p>
<p>Peter doesn't take more than a second to catalogue the change the huntress has undergone since his claws ripped through her throat and triggered the shift. He's instantly on guard, letting Malia keep Argent on the defensive while he searches for the other berserker. Peter can't scent it, can't hear it, and the longer he spends searching for it, the more anxious he gets about leaving Malia alone. He's listening with one ear to the taunts Argent's spitting out which is probably why the berserker gets one swipe in before Peter turns, unloads the gun in its face from mere feet away. </p>
<p>Peter's bleeding from the berserker's strike, just a little, but healing fast; it's nothing even close to fatal but the scent of his blood sends Malia into a frenzy. He turns to go back to her and Argent, reaches the light just in time to see Malia shed her human skin and leap at Kate in full coyote shift, fangs bared as she aims for Argent's throat. </p>
<p>Argent takes it in stride, it seems; she waits until Malia's within biting distance, then rakes her claws up Malia's belly and punches her to the side. Malia hits the wall with a crunching thump that stirs dust loose from the ceiling. By the time Peter's tossed the gun aside and has garnered Argent's full attention, Malia's shaking herself free of cement chunks and dirt, whining a little as she heals. She's upright, though, which is all Peter cares about. </p>
<p>"Another Hale that can full shift?" Argent asks, giving Peter a mocking grin as they move in mirroring arcs across the room. "What a pity Talia isn't here to see it -- but, oh, that's right. She's not here because <i>I burned her alive</i>." </p>
<p>Peter roars, goes for a full-frontal assault. He swings one arm at her face, ducks as soon as she leans back to evade the swipe and uses his other hand to claw at her knee. She howls and he takes the opportunity to reach for one of Malia's discarded knives. He gets his hand around it and then has to throw himself backward to avoid getting kicked in the face. He rolls, ends up in a crouch facing Kate, who's prodding at her knee through her sliced-open jeans. </p>
<p>"I liked these," she says, looking up at Peter with eyes narrowed and intent on him. "I think I'll take your daughter's shorts. No sense wasting good clothes on the dead." </p>
<p>"I would say that your mouth will get you in trouble," Peter snarls back, "but you're not going to live long enough to do anything about it." </p>
<p>Argent grins at him, wipes her forehead with the back of her arm. "Promises, promises," she says, before she springs off the ground and at Peter. Peter rises to meet her and sacrifices his arm to her fangs so that he can cut a long, shallow scratch across her belly with the venom-covered knife. She tumbles back with a curse, stumbles a little, and says, "Cheats. I'm gonna rip you both apart for that." </p>
<p>Peter gives voice to the wolf, a long, throaty rumble of <i>hunger</i> coming from deep inside. "Malia," he says. Both Argent and Malia look at him, Argent doing a poor job of hiding a wince, Malia with teeth bared, fur ruffling. "Your turn." </p>
<p>Malia's jaws open and she lifts her head, lets out a long, loud howl that echoes in the closed-in space, then scrabbles across the floor to go after Argent. She bites Argent's kneecap back open, doesn't so much as flinch when jaguar claws scrape deep into her snout, backing away with a huff and spitting Argent's blood out of her mouth. She pants, growls low, and then goes for the ankles. Malia turns fast enough in a wide enough circle that Argent can't keep pace, not with her healing stunted and her knee a mess of bone fragments and torn ligaments, and Malia rips out the tendons on the back of Argent's other ankle. The huntress wavers on her feet, snarling at the pain, reeking of hurt and stubbornness. </p>
<p>"Two against one?" Argent says. "Not a fair fight. I thought you Hales had <i>honour</i>." </p>
<p>"We used to," Peter says. "You burned it all out of us." </p>
<p>Malia goes in for another attack, and this time Peter joins her. Argent fights with everything in her, does her best to claw Malia and bite Peter, to resist the press of Peter's weight and the sharp slice of Malia's speed, but she's right: two against one, when those two are Hales and that one is the worst kind of enemy, is not at all fair. </p>
<p>Soon enough, Argent's skin is cut and bitten to shreds like her clothes, blood dripping from her mouth where Peter got in a lucky swing. With her healing so compromised, with her instincts starting to override her training, Argent turns into a hissing creature, lashing out like a cornered animal without thought or plan. It takes time and injury, but Malia and Peter eventually crowd her into a corner, give her no path out, and soon enough she's on the floor, dropped to one knee and staring up at Peter with hatred written all over her face. </p>
<p>"Someone else will come," she says, spitting in his face. "Someone else will finish you off. You're going to die, you and your daughter and your nephew, and no one will miss you. No one will mourn you. You'll be forgotten just like the rest of your fucking <i>pack</i>." </p>
<p>Peter could argue, could tell her that they have a bigger pack than she knows about, that there would never have been any way for her to win this fight, that she was destined to die long before she ever stepped foot back onto Hale territory, that she's been living on borrowed time ever since the night he sunk his claws into her throat and tore her into becoming the very thing she hunted for so long. </p>
<p>He doesn't feel the need to, though. Now, standing here, looking down on the panting, hateful mess of a shifter she's become, Peter just wants this over so he can go back to Derek and Stiles. </p>
<p>"Do you want the honours or shall I?" he asks Malia. </p>
<p>Malia looks up at him, rubs the side of her snout against Peter's leg, and springs forward. A moment later, Argent screams -- and then it's over. Peter listens as her blood stops moving through her veins, as her heart skip-stutters to a stop, and then he picks up one of their discarded knives and hacks her head off. </p>
<p>"She won't heal from this," he tells Malia, "and no one can bring her back, either." </p>
<p>Malia shifts back into her human skin, stands there looking over Peter's shoulder with a complete lack of care for her nudity. When Peter tosses Argent's head to the side and lays the former hunter down on the ground, Malia asks, "What are you doing?" </p>
<p>Peter gestures for Malia to go over to the side of the body, says, "Tradition." Malia drops to her knees, wipes hair and blood out of her face. "The first time a Hale executioner takes the life of someone in defense of the pack," he tells her, as he cuts open the skin above Argent's heart, "we take out the heart and bury it on the land. An offering, a promise, and a warning." He pulls Argent's skin apart, cracks open her ribs, and then looks at Malia. "A private tradition," he tells her, as he offers her the knife. "Not one we share, not even with our mates." </p>
<p>Malia takes the knife. "You'll tell Stiles, though," she half-asks. </p>
<p>"I wouldn't be surprised," Peter says, "if he already knows."</p>
<p>Malia snorts, mutters, "No shit," and doesn't hesitate to cut open the pericardium and saw apart the arteries anchoring Argent's heart. </p>
<p>When she's done, she gives Peter back the knife and then reaches into Argent's chest, pulling out her heart and holding it in bloody hands. Malia watches silently as Peter gathers up Malia's clothes and their weapons, then follows him up the stairs and back outside.</p>
<p>"You decide where," he tells her. </p>
<p>Malia looks around, goes down the steps until she's standing barefoot on the ground. She takes one step to the left, then stops. She turns back to Peter, asks, "Where did you bury yours?" </p>
<p>Peter nods to the right, says, "About three hundred feet that way. There was a young white cedar; I buried my heart at the base of the trunk." </p>
<p>Malia goes to the left. Peter follows her, slowly, and isn't surprised to see her stop in front of a white cedar -- the resonance of the symbolism, matching and mirroring, pleases him. She kneels, cradles the heart with one hand while she scoops out a hole with her other hand, claws helping to break the surface before they retract. When it's deep enough to suit her, Malia places the heart in the shallow grave carefully, covering it back up and then layering leaves and moss on top to keep the dirt in place. </p>
<p>She stands up and Peter offers her her clothes. She takes them with a curl of distaste on her lips and dresses quickly, ties the boots together by their laces and flings them over her shoulder. Malia gives Peter a look like she expects him to argue but he just grins at her, darts close enough to ruffle her hair and dances out of reach before she gets in a swipe. </p>
<p>"Come on," he says. "We have to deal with the rest of the body before we can go home." He takes one step back toward the house, then pauses, gives Malia a narrow-eyed look. "Why do you smell like you know something I don't know?" </p>
<p>Malia grins. "I'll follow you, alpha. Lead the way." </p>
<p>Peter doesn't trust that smile; it looks far too much like the one he wears when he's around people who aren't in on a joke that he orchestrated. He just doesn't know what the joke is this time. She doesn't smell of malice, only humour and the peculiar sour orange tang that usually indicates the kind of pride a person has in knowing secrets that others don't, so he heads back to the house and down into the basement with only the slightest hesitation. </p>
<p>When Peter gets to the room they'd left Argent's decapitated and desecrated body in, though, there's nothing there. No Argent corpse, no sign of the berserkers, nothing that looks out of place. Peter scans the room, inhales deep. He can't smell anything that shouldn't be there. </p>
<p>He turns to Malia, and she shrugs, doing a particularly bad job of hiding a smile. Peter sighs. "Stiles?" he asks. </p>
<p>Malia nods. "He didn't tell me how," she says. "He said he knows how to get rid of evidence, even the small things that we wouldn't be able to see, so he'd take care of it." </p>
<p>If anyone would know how to scrub a crime scene, it'd be the son of a sheriff. Peter looks around again, has no doubt that there's no trace of DNA from any of them, no fibers, no hairs, nothing suspicious at all. Forget law enforcement, there's most likely nothing here that <i>hunters</i> could use, with or without magical aid. </p>
<p>"When did he tell you he was going to do this?" Peter asks. He thinks back to the house, before they left; Stiles didn't hug Malia but she had been in his lap. Stiles was able to whisper a secret message to Peter so it's possible he could've done the same to Malia before they both stood up. </p>
<p>"When we tracked the scent here," Malia says. "He said we wouldn't need to worry about cleaning up." </p>
<p>"But that's when he thought he and I would be hunting her," Peter points out. "Not you and me." </p>
<p>Malia shrugs, looks unconcerned. "It's what Stiles said, though. Why would it matter who did the killing?" </p>
<p>Peter opens his mouth, closes it again as he shakes his head. He doesn't have a good answer for Malia. "Let's go home," he finally says. "We're both in desperate need of a shower." </p>
<p>Malia makes a face and says, "Eh. I'm used to worse." </p>
<p>A swell of adoration fills Peter fast and hard enough to interrupt the pattern of his breathing. His grin grows, turns deep and fond, and he says, "Don't forget that Stiles said there might be assassins coming this way. We'll have a chance to get dirty again soon enough." </p>
<p>"Beacon Hills," Malia says. "Ugh. I think I was safer as a coyote." </p>
<p>Peter laughs, starts walking back to the steps as he says, "I'm sure you were. Is there anything that makes up for the danger?" </p>
<p>Malia looks like she's honestly thinking about that. "Bacon," she finally says, as they both walk out of the house and into the sunlight. "Pack, too. But mostly bacon." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Thankfully, Peter has a few water bottles in the car. He and Malia clean off their hands and faces as best they can and Peter lays down a couple towels on the seats so they don't get blood and dirt <i>all</i> over. Still, even with that little protection, the car's going to be a bitch to detail clean. </p>
<p>The ride back to Peter's townhouse is quick but Peter keeps tabs on Malia's scent the whole ride, expecting the pride and glee and satisfaction to grow even a <i>touch</i> of something more negative. It never does, though, and when he parks and turns the car off, Malia springs out of the car like she hasn't just sliced open a corpse. </p>
<p>Stiles opens the door before Malia can knock, Peter behind her ready with his keys. Stiles takes them in, grins, then, and says, "You're back earlier than I expected. Go ahead and run upstairs, Mal; I've left clothes and towels for you on the back of the toilet." Malia nods, looks to move around him, but Stiles reaches out, touches her shoulder lightly with his fingertips. She pauses, mid-movement, and Stiles studies her, finally says, "Well done. I'm proud of you." </p>
<p>Malia grins, scent spiralling out in happiness and joy. She leans in, brushes her cheek against Stiles' without any care of the mess she's transferring, and says, "Good," before she darts inside and runs up the stairs.</p>
<p>Peter steps up, then, and Stiles looks him over, takes in the blood, the mess, and leans in to kiss Peter. Peter kisses back, would be helpless to do anything <i>but</i> kiss back, and when they part, Lydia's appeared behind Stiles, looking around Stiles to meet Peter's gaze.</p>
<p>"Shouldn't you be in school?" Peter asks. </p>
<p>"Pack's more important," Lydia says. She means it, too, and the honesty behind the statement makes Peter soften, scent and smile turning fond. "She's dead now, right? For good?" </p>
<p>Peter nods. "For good," he promises. </p>
<p>Lydia nods, pleased, and disappears again. </p>
<p>"Come in before the neighbours see you," Stiles says, moving away from the door and tugging Peter inside. "Once Mal's done, you can get cleaned up and then we can all pile in bed  for a while. I've got a stew going in the crock pot that won't be done for a few hours; maybe we could take a nap." </p>
<p>Stiles keeps chattering, a pointless ramble that does more to settle Peter than anything else. He follows Stiles, incapable of doing anything else, and meets Derek's eyes when he gets into the kitchen. Derek's sitting on the floor in front of the kitchen windows, in front of the bookshelves Peter picked up yesterday; apparently Stiles chose to distract Derek by having Derek put the shelves together and start unpacking the books. There are piles set around him; Peter wonders, idly, what the piles represent and who decided which book goes where, but then Derek looks up at him. He goes pale, a little, at the sight of Peter, but a strain of tension carried in his shoulders and arms disappears, too. </p>
<p>Derek stands up, steps over one of the piles, six or seven thick books high, and stands there, hands curled almost into fists at his sides. "It's done?" he asks. </p>
<p>Peter closes the distance between them, wraps one hand around Derek's neck and tugs, until their foreheads are pressed together. "It's done," Peter says. "She won't ever bother us again." </p>
<p>"No way she can come back?" Derek asks. "Nothing anyone can do, ever again?" </p>
<p>"Not even a necromancer, were one so inclined," Peter promises. He doesn't know how Stiles got rid of the body or where it ended up but he trusts that Stiles was thorough, and between Stiles, Peter hacking Argent's head off, and Malia burying Argent's heart? There's no way anyone could bring her back. </p>
<p>Derek stands there a moment longer, as if he's trying to convince himself of it, trying to believe Peter, and Peter can feel the instant when Derek <i>does</i>. His knees shake, a little, and a long, slow whine emerges from his throat like he doesn't even know he's doing it. Peter wants to wrap Derek up, let his nephew draw on his strength, but Lydia's there, and so is Stiles, and they're pulling Derek away between them, both of them crowded into Derek's space. </p>
<p>"C'mon," Stiles says. "Peter's gonna get cleaned up. We'll wait for him and Malia upstairs, yeah? You just took a shower an hour ago; you don't wanna have to take another one. You'll get all pruny." </p>
<p>Derek snorts, something wet, and he looks at Peter with such deep gratitude in his eyes that Peter feels -- if not uncomfortable with it, then at the very least unworthy of it. Stiles and Lydia drag Derek upstairs, Lydia telling him that they'll deal with the rest of the books later. Peter watches them go. Stiles looks over his shoulder just once, looks at Peter with such happiness and adoration, with Spark-white eyes and a glow around him, that Peter's wolf rumbles in joy at having pleased their mate to such an obvious extent. </p>
<p>Peter waits until he hears the three of them settle in bed, then takes the opportunity to wash his hands more thoroughly in the kitchen sink. Once they're clean and dry, he lifts the lid of the crock pot, smells venison and rosemary. His stomach growls, so Peter makes a quick snack of some bread and cheese, then, when the sound of footsteps going from the bathroom to the bedroom reaches his ears, he makes his way upstairs. </p>
<p>Stiles has left clothes in the bathroom for him as well, and dry towels, and Peter showers quickly, dries, and dresses. He stands in the doorway to his bedroom for a minute, just watching as Lydia and Stiles curl into Derek, as Malia stretches out at the foot of the bed, one arm wrapped around Derek's feet and her forehead pressed against the sole of one of Stiles' feet. The only thing missing is Danny; Peter checks his pack bond with Danny and finds him content, focused, gets the faintest impression of happiness as if he can feel Peter touching base through the bond and appreciates it. Stiles lifts a hand, then, and waves for Peter to join them. </p>
<p>Unwilling to refuse his mate anything, Peter does as directed, spooning Stiles from behind, one arm going over Stiles' side to lay fingertips on Derek's waist. Stiles wriggles a little, readjusting, and Malia grumbles as she's forced to as well, but then they all fall still, one big heap of pack. </p>
<p>Peter's not tired, is more energised than anything else, but he closes his eyes to revel in the physical closeness and the humming of strong pack bonds. Eventually, sooner than he'd thought possible, he finds himself drifting off into a light doze, pushed along by the satisfaction coming from Lydia, the pride from Malia, Derek's relief, and the comforting, familiar rhythm of Stiles' heartbeat.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peter wakes up to a dark room, Derek the only one still in bed with him. The pattern of Derek's breathing makes Peter think Derek's awake, but when Derek doesn't say anything, Peter yawns, eyes closed, and listens for everyone else. Peter hears Lydia and Stiles talking about Stiles' books, hears the thump of heavy hardbacks getting added to the shelves at odd, stretched-out intervals. He hears the scratching of pencil lead on paper that he assumes is Malia doing homework and smells the warm flavour-scent of stew lingering in the air. His bond to Stiles hums, wide open and thrumming with contentment, and Peter presses down a tired sort of happiness, one that gets returned enthusiastically. </p>
<p>It's such a different feeling to the way he woke up that morning. </p>
<p>"How long have they been up?" Peter asks. He finally opens his eyes, curls his toes as he stretches out his legs, and then looks at Derek. </p>
<p>"Not long," Derek says. "Stiles was the first; I was still asleep when he woke up but he crawled out of bed about half an hour ago. Malia went with him -- that's what woke me up -- and Lydia joined them a few minutes after that. I heard her say something about texting Danny, seeing if he wanted to come over for dinner." His scent shifts toward happy, amused, as he adds, "Malia was against it. She said there'd be less deer for her if there was someone else eating." Peter gives Derek a look, one eyebrow raised, and Derek says, "Apparently it's her favourite." </p>
<p>Peter doesn't think he had any venison in the freezer; Lydia must have picked it up on her way over. The thought of his pack going to the effort of making Malia her favourite meal, of providing her with comfort and appreciation in this manner, has him chuckling. They're all going to be <i>so good</i> together.</p>
<p>Derek sits up, legs crossed as he sets his hands in his lap and looks down at them, takes a deep breath. "I know you said that it wasn't my fault," he says, quietly, "but it feels like it. You and Malia could've been hurt and that would've been --" </p>
<p>"Not your fault, either," Peter says, as he sits up as well. "We both chose to go after her. And in the end, it was almost anti-climatic." Derek's head lifts at that, as he gives Peter a scandalised look, and Peter shrugs. "Feels that way. Anyone else, I'd say it was too easy, but we did have Stiles' warning and Argent had only just entered the territory a few hours before so she didn't have time to set up a proper base of operations or scout the area. Moving so fast against her took her off-guard; knowing she had berserkers with her as well, knowing what she <i>was</i>, meant we could plan for her in a way that she couldn't plan for us."</p>
<p>"Did she say why she was here?" Derek asks. </p>
<p>Peter shakes his head. "No," he says. He's not going to tell Derek that Argent specifically said Derek's name, that he figured in whatever plans she had. It's not necessary for Derek to know that and it would most likely upset him even more than the thought of Argent being nearby had. "We didn't give her much of a chance to monologue at us," he admits. "She was here to kill us, that's all we know. All we need to know." </p>
<p>Derek lets out a deep breath. "I don't know whether to ask how Stiles knew about her, what she -- what she turned into, or apologise for not being strong enough to go with you." </p>
<p>"I'm assuming Stiles got his information from the wards," Peter says, once it's clear that Derek's not planning on saying anything else. "I know he set them up but we haven't talked about what kind of information they feed him or how he deciphers their warnings. He said they weren't that strong but he's obviously attuned enough to feel when something supernatural sets them off and sensitive enough to tell him who -- or what, anyway -- tripped them. I didn't feel them when we came back into town; if that means he's written in exemptions or he's tied them to the pack bonds or his claims somehow -- at some point I'll either figure it out or he'll tell me. As for you not being strong enough --," and here Peter pauses, breathes in and out as he watches Derek hunch his shoulders in a little, prepare for some kind of blow. "Strength has nothing to do with it. She violated you, Derek. Of course you wouldn't want to face her. No one in their right mind would ever blame you for that. She was mine to deal with, my mistake come back to haunt us, my responsibility as alpha of the territory." </p>
<p>"I never told Laura," Derek says, abruptly. "About what she -- about how -- you know. But I think she knew. I think Laura recognised  <i>her</i> scent at the house because she'd smelled it before, on me. She never asked but I think -- I think she hated me for it. She never said but there were times I could feel it, times I felt like she was about to say it." He drops his head a little more, says, quietly, "If it was Laura here, today, she would've made me deal with it. Her." </p>
<p>No matter how much Stiles tells him that Laura deserved to die, that no other shifter who follows the laws of pack would ever blame him, some part of Peter will always regret what he did that night. It spurred his ability to heal, gave him the power to create pack, even helped him take vengeance against those who conspired against his family, but ripping Laura's alpha spark out of her is something he'll always mourn the necessity of doing. Right now, though, seeing Derek and smelling the guilt, the self-disgust, hearing the way Derek thinks he <i>deserved</i> everything Laura put him through? Peter would happily murder his niece all over again, and this time he'd be <i>smiling</i>. </p>
<p>"Laura was wrong," Peter says. He throws one arm around Derek's shoulders, tugs and pulls and prods until Derek's got his face buried in Peter's neck. "She was wrong, Derek. And forcing you to deal with any of the Argents would be wrong." Derek whines a little, curls up a little closer, a little tighter, and Peter says it again, "She was wrong. It's not your fault." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Peter's not sure how long he and Derek just -- hold each other. It's nice, though, settling in a way that Peter hadn't expected. He's sure it has something to do with Derek being pack, with their bond being anchored in family and history, something to do with Derek <i>finally</i> giving into his instincts to search for comfort and help when he's hurting and Peter's need to provide both of those things as alpha, something, as well, to do with the darkness of the room and the way that darkness breeds a safety that encourages secrets to be shared. </p>
<p>It has a little to do with Stiles, too, Peter realises, when he looks up from where he's had his nose buried in Derek's hair to see Stiles leaning against the doorway, arms folded loosely over his chest. Peter might have killed Deucalion for Stiles, but taking Deucalion's alpha spark has given Peter <i>pack</i> again, real pack. </p>
<p>"Danny's here," Stiles says, softly. "Dinner's gonna be ready in about half an hour; Lydia's teaching Malia how to make mashed potatoes. It's pretty entertaining, actually, if you'd like to come downstairs and cheer them on. If not, we can bring something up to you."</p>
<p>Derek sits up, pulling away from Peter, and starts moving to get off the bed. "I'll go watch," Derek says. "They might need someone else with faster reflexes in case Malia gets impatient." </p>
<p>He moves past Stiles, lets Stiles scent him, pausing so Stiles can trail his hand across Derek's shoulders and down one arm. Derek only returns the scenting by brushing his fingers against Stiles' knuckles but it's still more than Peter would have expected. </p>
<p>Derek gone, Stiles comes inside the bedroom, shuts the door behind him. He sits on the edge of the bed facing Peter, one foot tucked under him, the other on the floor. "You okay?" he asks. </p>
<p>"Yeah," Peter says. "It was -- easier than I expected." </p>
<p>The Argents as a family have struck terror into the heart of the supernatural community -- terror and hatred both. They've built themselves up to become such a monolith, like some kind of untouchable crusading force, able to strike down any they come across no matter the odds against them. Even Peter has fallen prey to that once or twice; he's relatively sure that he only decided to go after those who set the fire because he was too mad to think better of such a foolhardy plan. The ease with which he and Malia killed Kate Argent doesn't precisely sit right with him but he's sure that it's because of the ingrained response to the Argent name rather than the particulars of this one murder.</p>
<p>"Malia told me you fought well together," Stiles says, pulling Peter out of his thoughts. "That it seemed -- she said 'right' but I think she meant instinctual, the way you two worked around and with each other." Stiles smiles, a small, proud little thing. "She seemed -- happy. Content. I think it's hurt her to keep her instincts reined in around Scott. Now that she's in a pack that honours instincts, instead of stifling them, she'll learn quick." </p>
<p>"There's not much training she'll need," Peter says. "Not to get her up to the level of other pack executioners. Maybe a little more to suit us, but -- it was good to see her in action, see what she's capable of." He pauses, then asks, "Did you know she sees you as her alpha?" </p>
<p>Stiles exhales through his teeth. "I didn't want to assume, but -- yeah, I guess I did. How -- is that a problem? </p>
<p>Peter considers it, finally shakes his head. He still fought side by side with her, had no issue giving her the kill, feels their pack bond thick and comfortable, bound by blood and choice. "It would be an understatement to say that you're just as much as alpha in your own right as I am. And she referenced it, tangentially, yesterday. 'Strong alphas,' she said, which means she sees us both as pack alphas. As long as she listens when it matters -- and I think she will -- I'm okay with you being her primary alpha." </p>
<p>"It'll probably change," Stiles points out. "She just needs time to get used to it. I mean, she resisted Scott but she bared the throat to you without hesitation." </p>
<p>Peter has doubts about that. He has a strong suspicion that Malia will always see Stiles as having the final say. He's her anchor as well as her alpha, after all. Still, Peter would be hard-pressed to find any anger in him at her choice. Stiles might as well be Peter's alpha, too -- balance is a goal worth striving for but Stiles will always have the power and Peter will always submit if it comes down to it. Oh, he'll make Stiles work for it and he'll hold out for concessions of his own, but it's like he said in Dallas: he'd give in. </p>
<p>With a mental shake, Peter gives Stiles a look, sees Stiles waiting patiently for Peter to work through whatever he's thinking about, sitting still with Spark-lit eyes and a barely-there glow around the edges of his skin, enough that Peter might be imagining it. He's not imagining the smile, though, or the way that their bond sings with a type of delicate, precious feeling too gentle to name. </p>
<p>"How did you know?" Peter asks. He's not sure exactly what he's asking Stiles, whether it's about Argent and what she turned into, about the berserkers, about where she was and the fact that he knew about the vault and its contents, how it was all right to get rid of her corpse and how he did that, so many other things. </p>
<p>Stiles doesn't look or smell like he minds the open-ended question. He just shrugs, chooses to answer, "Wards are good enough for that. They're not strong enough to take any independent action right now but they're good enough to tag every supernatural person who comes through them. And there's another entrance to the vault in the school basement; the nogitsune got in somehow, checked things out -- though I don't know what he was looking for or whether or not he found it. I figure the spell guarding the entrance let me in because you'd already decided to mate me even though we hadn't talked about it yet." He gives Peter a grin tinged with bitterness and shrugs one shoulder as he adds, "Or the Spark broke right on through. That's possible, too. I haven't found a ward I can't walk through -- not yet, anyway."  </p>
<p>The fox Peter smelled was the <i>nogitsune</i>. Of course. The hint of ozone attached to the fox was a hint of Stiles' scent; if Stiles remembers enough about the contents of the vault, he must've been partially aware during the fox's breaking and entering. Peter wonders if the nogitsune's little adventure happened before or after Stiles' stay in Eichen House; it was obviously before the split, with their scents entwined and Stiles' knowledge. Why the nogitsune didn't take anything, either, when there was enough money in the vault to fund an escape, or enough weaponry to murder dozens, if not hundreds of people, or enough magical artefacts to open a shop, Peter doesn't know. The fox could have left booby-traps, could've torn apart the wards on the vault, could've ransacked everything just for the hell of it -- but it didn't. It seems like such a wasted opportunity. </p>
<p>"She said something about burning bridges," Peter says, after a moment. "Argent, I mean. I didn't take much notice of it then, but --." He stops, cocks his head. "It seems odd, now that I think about it." </p>
<p>"We knew someone must have taken good enough care of her to get her back on her feet," Stiles says. "We thought Gerard; it could've been someone else. I don't know who, though. Other hunters would've no doubt pushed her to commit suicide in line with their code and no self-respecting shifter or magic user would've offered her anything. If they knew who she was," Stiles adds. "Maybe -- huh. I don't know. Want me to put out some feelers?" </p>
<p>Peter weighs the pros and cons, finally says, "If you feel like it. It might be a good way to get the word out that Kate Argent's dead. For good, this time. See if that gets us any goodwill." </p>
<p>Stiles grins, turns on the bed and lifts his other leg so that he's kneeling, now, next to Peter. "You're hot when you're plotting," he says, and leans in, nudging his nose against Peter's. </p>
<p>"Excuse you," Peter says. "I'm hot all the time."</p>
<p>He tilts his chin up enough to press his lips against Stiles', turns the kiss open-mouthed and hungry. He hasn't forgotten the fear from last night or the panic from this morning, will never forget the feeling of their bond being suppressed, and some of that desperation must leak into the kiss because Stiles leans back, lips red and swollen, and says, unsteady, "Make-up sex?" </p>
<p>Peter gives Stiles a wolfish smile, all teeth and glittering eyes, and Stiles' heart skips a beat before the rhythm of it speeds up. "Make-up sex," he says in agreement, and then <i>pounces</i>.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>When they make their way downstairs twenty-five minutes later, after having done the most cursory clean-up, they see Lydia ladling out stew into bowls already filled with mashed potatoes. Derek's nostrils flare and he wrinkles his nose at their stench but doesn't say anything. Malia looks at them with a wide smile and Danny, sitting on the couch with Derek and Malia, gives them a low whistle. </p>
<p>"Damn," he says, eyes catching on the bitemarks littering Stiles' collarbone, visible as one of Peter's wide v-necks slides off one shoulder, before he glances at Stiles' lips and watches Stiles sit down on the floor with a slight wince. "If I thought I'd survive the kind of sex you two are apparently having, I think I'd be jealous." </p>
<p>Peter snorts, heads into the kitchen to help Lydia, as Malia says, "It's good when the alpha pair's mate-bonded so strongly. Makes for a strong pack." Peter glances over, sees as Malia gets off the couch and falls into a heap next to Stiles, leaning against him. Stiles wraps an arm around Malia, thumb stroking her arm. </p>
<p>Lydia hip-checks Peter, picks up three of the bowls, balancing them carefully, and then nods at the other three. "You'll need to get drinks for you and Stiles, too. Everyone else already has one." She heads for the living room, then, the only room where all of them can sit together and eat. He'll need to get working on the pack house soon; they already need a bigger kitchen and they haven't even finished inviting people to join the pack. </p>
<p>Peter balances the other three bowls, trails Lydia into the living room. She gives a bowl each to Danny and Derek, then sits down next to Derek, in the spot Malia vacated, with hers. Peter gives Malia her dinner, hands the other two bowls to Stiles, and asks, "Drink?" </p>
<p>"Just water," Stiles says, bestowing a bright smile on Peter. "Thanks." </p>
<p>Peter fills up two glasses of water; when he gets back to the living room, he sits down on the floor next to Stiles, trades one of the glasses for a bowl of stew. For a while, there's only the sounds of eating and drinking, a few murmured compliments on the food. Malia goes back for seconds, as does Danny; Derek takes his and Lydia's empty bowls to the sink. By the time Malia's somehow laying on top of both Peter and Stiles, hands clasped together on top of her belly, the scents in the room have mingled into a satisfied, content knot of pack. </p>
<p>"So," Lydia says. "Stiles said something about assassins earlier?" </p>
<p>Danny, taking a sip of juice, half-chokes. "Assassins?" </p>
<p>Stiles laughs, Derek pounds Danny on the back, and Lydia sighs, looking up at the ceiling as if praying for patience. Peter doesn't blame her. </p>
<p>"Dude, Beacon Hills is never boring," Stiles says. "Even before we got all up close and personal with werewolves --" he leers at Peter, wiggling his eyebrows; Derek groans and Danny snorts, "-- there was always <i>something</i> going on. And not all that much less-lethal, either," Stiles adds, tone taking on a feeling of fond nostalgia. "Remember that explosion at the middle school when we were in seventh grade?" </p>
<p>"The community centre," Lydia points out. "There's a reason the new one has so many windows." </p>
<p>Danny nods, volunteers his own, "Oh, and that thing with the old bank on --." He stops, quick, when he sees the claws come out of Derek's fingers, says, after a moment, "Okay, right. Not mentioning that. But yeah, Stiles, fair enough. Though I still think the middle school thing was your fault." </p>
<p>Stiles shakes his head. "You have no proof, Danny-boy. You're accusing an innocent man, here." </p>
<p>Peter scoffs. Everyone apart from Malia looks at Stiles with some form of amusement or skepticism, though outrage grows on Stiles' face as Peter points out, "You, my little monster, have <i>never</i> been innocent. You were probably scheming your preschool classmates out of crayons and cookies."</p>
<p>"Mrs. Jacobs always did have the best peanut butter cookies," Stiles says, wistfully. "She put butterscotch chips in them." </p>
<p>Peter makes a mental note to find Stiles some butterscotch chip peanut butter cookies and ignores the exasperated look Derek's giving him. </p>
<p>"So death and destruction is a normal part of Beacon Hills life," Danny says, "but we've never had actual assassins here before. Not that I know of, anyway. Is this -- something we should be worried about? On a scale from driving past Harris' old house even though he's dead, to Finstock getting a new idea when there's no Greenberg around to take the brunt of it, how concerned should we be?" </p>
<p>Derek cocks his head, says, "That's a scale I'm not familiar with." Stiles opens his mouth but Derek shakes his head. "No explanation needed; I think I can figure it out myself. But it's a good question." He looks at Peter, tells him, "Stiles talked to someone -- Bee-Bee? -- on the phone while you and Malia were gone. She said something about the coven." </p>
<p>Malia squirms so she can look up at Stiles from the position she's in, head on Peter's lap and knees in Stiles'. "You said that name before. This morning. Bee-Bee. Who is she?" </p>
<p>Stiles winces a little, says, "She's a witch. A friend." </p>
<p>"<i>She</i> is Béa du Lac, Witch of <i>la Basse-Louisiane</i>," Peter says, dryly, "and I think one of Stiles' closest friends and confidants." He can smell the indignation coming from Lydia's direction, doesn't think he's imagining the way that she's straightened up, eyes flashing, the faintest hint of <i>death</i> in her scent. "A very pleasant woman if one stays on her good side, though not to be crossed." The sense-memory of her scent accepting Stiles', elements of each mirroring the other, runs through his mind. "She has enough power to make anyone crossing her feel very, very stupid for daring to think it possible." </p>
<p>"You met her," Derek half-asks. "She can be trusted?" </p>
<p>Even Stiles fixes his eyes on Peter, at that question. "As long as we're on Stiles' side, she'll be on ours," Peter says. Stiles settles and Derek nods, but Lydia and Danny exchange glances. </p>
<p>"Witch of <i>la Basse-Louisiane</i>," Lydia says. Peter's not surprised to her that her pronunciation is perfect. "What does that mean?" </p>
<p>"Magic users have split the country up into territories," Stiles says, answering before Peter can warn Lydia that it means power, and lots of it. Peter glances at Stiles, sees that he's looking down at Malia, fingers drawing circles around Malia's kneecap. When he goes on, he sounds vaguely contemplative. "Each territory is -- overseen, I think, is the best word for it, by either a high witch or a coven. They take responsibility for making sure the magicals under their watch don't out us to the rest of the world. and they act as liaisons or mediators between magic-users and shifters. Sometimes they offer training -- Mari does that; she's a great teacher -- or serve as lorekeepers -- I'm pretty sure that's why Binks lives in Maine; no one bothers her during the winter which means she gets to stay buried in her books."</p>
<p>Lydia's scowl dissipates a little; her scent is signaling curiosity assuaged but not reassurance. Peter bites back a smile at the thought that Lydia's so possessive of Stiles, so willing to distrust outsiders. He wonders if Stiles plans to introduce Béa and Lydia or if he's going to try and keep them as far apart from each other as possible. </p>
<p>"And what did Béa say?" Peter asks. "She can't have had time to do much." </p>
<p>"Oh, ye of little faith," Stiles says, grinning at Peter. "Since you agreed, I texted her and asked her to get in touch with the Cascade Coven to ask them about scrying. They're on good speaking terms," Stiles adds, almost an aside, at the look Peter gives him, "though the trust is extremely tentative on both sides. When she heard back from them, Bee-Bee called me back to give me an update. Some of the Cascade Coven had a run-in with the Chemist a few years back, I guess, and it upset them all enough that they're gonna go all-in. They've found a way to track him so they'll get that set up and let us know when he gets to Pacific Time. Denver's getting pissy at the thought of setting up a layer of trigger-wards like the ones Bee and Will are putting up at the Mississippi, though, so we're gonna have to find another way to slow them down when they cross the Rockies. I was thinking of asking the maestro I'm contracted with to get in touch with the kiss in Colorado Springs since Denver's throwing a tantrum." </p>
<p>Danny's the first to respond, raising his hand. </p>
<p>"We're not in school," Lydia says, rolling her eyes. "Just ask." </p>
<p>"If everyone else already knows this stuff, I can skip the explanation for now and ask Lydia or Stiles later," he says, "but if not, I need some clarification before I start making guesses. Witches? Lorekeepers? A kiss? Does that mean <i>vampires</i> are real?" </p>
<p>Derek speaks before anyone else, says, "I was born into this world and even <i>I'm</i> having trouble following some of what they're talking about. I'd assume that Peter's the only one who knows what Stiles means but I don't know if that's because of his and Stiles' road trip or from training before the fire." His lips quirk up, then, as he tells Danny, "But yeah. Vampires are real. They generally keep to themselves, though -- the last time a Hale ran across one was back in the forties." He pauses, adds, "The <i>eighteen</i>-forties."</p>
<p>Peter gives Derek an appraising look, asks, "You remember that?" </p>
<p>"Most of the bedtime stories," Derek admits. "Not all of them, but that one always scared me. Makes me wonder what kind of crazy you are, to be contracted to a kiss," he says, inclining his head in Stiles' direction.</p>
<p>"We already know I'm a whole bucket of crazy," Stiles says. His scent's gone cold, withdrawn, the way animals scurry and hide away before a blizzard. Derek whines, a little, high enough and quick enough that, Peter thinks, only the shifters can hear it. Stiles does, though, as well, and he thaws, slow and crackling, in scent and bond as he calms down from whatever accusation he heard in Derek's tease. "Sorry," he says, quiet. He turns to Peter, then, and tilts his head. "If things keep moving this fast, we're going to need to work out some way of teaching them sooner rather than later."</p>
<p>Peter nods, says, "You've already brought up the best solution. We could ask tomorrow." </p>
<p>"Satomi would <i>love it</i>," Stiles says. He looks thoughtful; Peter rolls his eyes, pokes Stiles in the side in silent question. "The coven's been split up before," Stiles says. "Not for long, and not very far apart, but they're used to working with distance. We could always have someone to come down here and spend some time playing professor."</p>
<p>"Not yet," Peter says, after a moment's consideration. "Maybe once we get a better idea of when and why our visitors are dropping in. They might be sending people down then anyway." </p>
<p>Stiles nods, says, "S'a good idea. Hopefully they won't ruin our summer vacation."</p>
<p>"Who is Satomi and what's happening tomorrow?" Lydia asks. </p>
<p>She sounds fed-up, almost upset, and Peter sends soothing reassurance down their shrieking bond as he says, "Alpha Satomi Ito lives with her pack on our borders and we're meeting her tomorrow to settle an alliance. Me, Stiles, and Derek, after school. We're not keeping secrets, Lydia. I just didn't want to say anything until it was done. We've been thinking of asking Satomi if she'd be willing to offer instruction in pack law to some of our pack, as she's brought a number of bitten wolves into this world. She's a good teacher and she's neutral when it comes to Beacon Hills."</p>
<p>Danny leans forward, asks Stiles, "How did <i>you</i> learn?" </p>
<p>"I'm always sticking my nose where it doesn't belong," Stiles says, something self-deprecating in his tone, enough to have Danny frowning at him. "Satomi started teaching me after I first got in touch with her. I got a mentor of my own, after that, and a lot of books, along with a connection to several very traditional packs who like having eager students and were willing to instruct me long-distance. Last summer I did -- hm. An accelerated course, I guess you could say." </p>
<p>"Scott said you were at summer camp last summer," Danny says, clearly thinking back. "He and Isaac came to play some pick-up lacrosse with us a few times; you never showed, though. Was your camp -- magical?" </p>
<p>Stiles laughs, admits, "It wasn't summer camp but it <i>was</i> educational. My mentor dragged me around, introduced me to a bunch of people, made sure I minded my manners." Derek gives Stiles a look full of skepticism at that. Stiles waves it away, says, "You may've threatened me a few times over the years, Der, but I knew you'd never actually hurt me. These people were fully capable of it and most of them would've been more than willing to try if I'd been rude or stupid. Ignorance is no excuse with people like that." </p>
<p>Peter considers what he's heard of the fae, of the Winter Court and Queen Mab, thinks of the weight of power surrounding Béa and the brutal instinctiveness of the Triple Alliance, bites back a shiver at the thought of Soledad Medina's demons, extrapolates all of that out to imagine Stiles meeting necromancers and elementals and vampires and other high witches. "He's not exaggerating," Peter says, "though they'd all show leniency to Stiles because of what he is." </p>
<p>"The cats didn't," Stiles points out. "What makes you think anyone else would've?" Peter makes a face, shakes his head in confused disbelief, and Stiles reminds him, gently, "Magic users don't automatically like what I am, Peter. Most of them will respect the power I possess but that doesn't mean I'm always safe among them." </p>
<p>"But -- I don't understand," Derek says, eyes wide and smelling faintly of betrayal. "You're not safe among your own kind?" </p>
<p>Stiles' lip curls, nose wrinkling. "They're not my kind," he says, sharply. Derek flinches back, bares his throat and whines a little. Malia goes tense, Lydia's got her eyes narrowed, and Danny just looks fascinated. "Sorry," Stiles says, breathing out as the distaste in his scent disappears. He reaches over, pats Malia's head and then runs his fingers through her hair to settle her. "Some magic users respect me," Stiles says, as he turns back to Derek. "A few are even my friends. But I've always been safer and felt more at home among shifters. I might not be one of you but <i>you're</i> my kind. You have been ever since Scott got bit and I was pulled into this world." </p>
<p>"I get that there's stuff here I don't understand," Danny says, "but since it sounds like the two of you are working on a plan to educate us, I'm going to wait on explanations for now and change the subject." He pauses, gives everyone a chance to disagree, but Stiles only hums in acknowledgment and Peter tilts his head in curiosity. "You brought him up, so. Scott. He asked about you at school today. I saw you two talking in the halls yesterday but he asked where you and Malia were during second period, and he noticed when Lydia skipped the last couple classes. You said yesterday that he doesn't know about the pack, but -- does he know about you?" </p>
<p>"No," Stiles says. "I -- he wouldn't have understood it and I couldn't -- can't -- trust him to keep it secret." He sighs, leans into Peter. "I'm still not -- I haven't -- Peter and I have talked about what to do with Scott. I've been hoping that we can put it off until after school finishes. That'll give us time to feel out the rest of his pack, settle all of our bonds, decide what to do about him. Thanks for the warning," he tells Danny. "I'll make sure I'm ready with a whole handful of good excuses tomorrow. Mal? You think you're up to lying to Scott if he asks?" </p>
<p>Malia snorts. "I'll tell him I was hungry for deer. He gets grossed out when he thinks about it so he won't ask any more questions. And it won't be a lie. I'm <i>always</i> hungry for deer. Why don't people eat more deer?" </p>
<p>That very honest question seems to break the tension in the room. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>The four high schoolers sit on the floor and finish up their homework. Lydia, Danny, and Stiles take it in turns to help Malia, and Peter keeps one ear on the proceedings, pleased to discover that each of the three has a different teaching style and different subjects that they're more comfortable discussing. He and Derek migrate into the kitchen, first to clean up after dinner, then to resume organising Stiles' books into the new bookcases. A good percentage of them are written in languages other than English; Peter recognises Latin and Greek, French and Russian, a couple in German, even a handful in some other Slavic language or languages: Polish, Czech, Croatian, he's not sure. There's also a couple in runes, which -- </p>
<p>"Can you even <i>read</i> all of these?" Peter calls out to Stiles. </p>
<p>"Most of them, even if it's just a little," Stiles replies absently. "My Latin is really pathetic, though, and my understanding of Romance languages in general could be better. Solé hooked me up with a pair of glasses from Ronove to help me out with those." </p>
<p>Peter hears Lydia asks, "Who the hell is Ronove and can I use those glasses?" </p>
<p>"Ah," Stiles says, heartbeat speeding up a little, as if he's just realised what he's admitted to. "Ronove is -- um. And no, the glasses wouldn't work for you; they tie into my magic to power the -- uh. To power them." </p>
<p>Peter's heart skips a beat and he sits there, focuses on breathing in and out. He didn't recognise the name but he knows what it must mean that Mage Medina got the glasses for Stiles, the mostly likely <i>cursed by a demon</i> glasses, glasses that Stiles allows to hook into his <i>Spark</i> to gather the needed power to access the -- and he cannot stop thinking this -- <i>demon curse</i>.</p>
<p>Derek reaches over to Peter and calls out for Stiles at the same time; Stiles comes skidding into the kitchen on sock-covered feet, trips over a pile of books, tumbling towards the bookshelves and the window. He's only saved by Peter's instant reaction to get up and grab Stiles by the waist, spinning them both away from the glass and crashing into the counter. </p>
<p>"Jesus <i>christ</i>, I thought you said you were graceful," Peter says, eyes flashing red as his fangs drop. "Don't <i>do</i> that."</p>
<p>"Not my intention," Stiles says, weakly, rubbing at his hip. "Didn't see the books there and you were panicking and I just wanted to -- uh. Nevermind. Thanks."</p>
<p>Peter can see Derek in the corner of his vision, watching them with wide eyes. "I see what you mean about Stiles needing protection from himself," he says, and stands up to perch against the top edge of the bookcase, ready in case either of them need him to do anything. </p>
<p>Peter whines a little, unwilling to release his tight hold on Stiles, and Stiles runs a hand through Peter's hair, scritches down the back of Peter's neck. </p>
<p>"I'm okay," Stiles says. "I'm okay, wolf. You got me in time. And the glasses can't hurt me; Ronove is one of Solé's; she wouldn't let anything happen." When that doesn't seem to placate Peter, Stiles sighs, tugs at his shirt collar and yanks it halfway down one arm, baring his shoulder. "Go on," he says. </p>
<p>No hesitation, and Stiles' instant solution hits the wolf in the right spots. Peter buries his fangs around the curve of Stiles' shoulder, feels the sweat on Stiles' skin against his lips, hears the thundering rhythm of his pulse, so loud that it drowns out everything else. He tastes Stiles, drinking down the pure and wild power he keeps so constrained, the wickedly ferocious beat of his mischievous heart pulsing blood into Peter's mouth, blood which carries the full flush of life Stiles possesses, all breath and pounding heart and untouched, untainted magic. Stiles stinks of sorrow, of self-loathing, of regret for upsetting Peter, and the way Stiles has one hand pressed to the back of Peter's neck, the other so loosely resting on Peter's hip, helps to ground both wolf and man almost as much as the blood-letting. </p>
<p>Peter calms down, slowly and steadily, and when he takes his fangs out of Stiles and starts licking up the blood, he sees Stiles wince. Peter swallows; before he can say anything, Stiles tells him, "I was stupid. Okay? And this worked. I'll heal." </p>
<p>"No apologising," Peter says, voice hoarse. He straightens back up, wipes off his mouth and chin on the back of his arm. He can see the three other teenagers watching them with differing expressions from the living room, can feel Derek's eyes on his back. </p>
<p>"Depending on how long it takes with Satomi tomorrow, we should go see Solé afterwards," Stiles says. He runs his fingertips over Peter's cheekbone, cups his palm to the curve of Peter's face and brushes his thumb at the blood Peter feels drying on his chin. "Thursday at the latest. It's not fair that you don't know her the way I do. Once you meet her, you'll calm down about her, I swear." </p>
<p>Peter wants nothing less than to go see Mage Medina. </p>
<p>"Who's Solé, Stiles?" Lydia asks. "Why is Peter so upset?" </p>
<p>Stiles looks over his shoulder, then turns, a little, so his back's to the counter and he can see everyone. He moves Peter with him, keeps their bodies pressed together, Peter's back to the world. Peter wants nothing more than to bury his face in Stiles' neck, feel the beat of his pulse under his mouth, against his cheek, rip a scar there for all the world to see that Stiles is <i>his</i> and that Stiles is proud to accept his claim. He can't, though. He can feel the light of the Spark, even now, as it pulses a warning around Stiles' throat, like some invisible collar of heat keeping Peter away. </p>
<p>It makes Peter ache.</p>
<p>"Solé's my mentor," Stiles says. "Soledad Medina. She's a mage. Her --," he takes a deep breath, pulls Peter tight against him, until there's no space for anything but promises and sadness between them. "Her specialty is demon summoning. She's a demon summoner and she has seventy-two demons bound into her service. Ronove is one of them." </p>
<p>"What," Lydia says, into the silence, "the actual fuck." </p>
<p>A moment later, Danny agrees. "I'm with Lydia on that. <i>Completely</i> with Lydia on that." </p>
<p>Peter can almost hear the frown on Malia's face as she asks, "Why is everyone upset? She sounds powerful and if she's Stiles' mentor, then Stiles trusts her. It's good that the pack has strong allies." </p>
<p>Put like that, Peter almost feels foolish at his reaction. Almost -- but not quite, not when the memory of meeting Soledad Medina for the first and only time <i>still</i> haunts him. Knowing that Stiles allowed a pair of cursed glasses to hook into his Spark just to read a few books, though -- reacting to that makes <i>sense</i>. There's nothing foolish about being worried that a curse could somehow get a hold of Stiles' Spark; if one ever did, if it ever tainted such a deep wellspring of magic, there's literally no end to the disaster that might occur. </p>
<p>"Think about what I am, Peter," Stiles tells him, soft and earnest. "Remember the things I've done. Do you really think a demon could ever touch me?" </p>
<p>"A demon already did," Lydia says. </p>
<p>Not for the first time, Peter thinks that Lydia's tongue is sharper than his own teeth or claws. He stands there as a wave of heart-deep <i>pain</i> wafts out from Stiles, as the weight of sunlight doubles, then triples, blanketing Peter when it should, by all rights, feel suffocating. Derek growls, a little thing, and there's a rumbling coming from Malia as well; underneath it all, he hears Danny ask Malia what she and Derek are reacting to, what the shifters can sense that he can't. </p>
<p>"Stiles is mourning," Malia says. "He hurts. I don't like it." </p>
<p>"Mourning the <i>nogitsune</i>?" Lydia asks, tone ever sharper. "That -- that <i>creature</i> that killed Aiden? That killed <i>Allison</i>? There is no reason --" </p>
<p>Peter cuts her off with a snarl, feeling Stiles flinch at Lydia's words. "There is <i>every</i> reason," Peter says, though his words lisp a little as they come out through his fangs. </p>
<p>Peter hears movement from behind; only the scent that accompanies it keeps him from lashing out as Derek stands up, moves to where Stiles and Peter are. He rests one hand on Peter's shoulder, says, "Tell us, then, so we understand." </p>
<p>Stiles shakes his head. "No," he says. "I -- just -- no." The reluctance doesn't surprise Peter. He just wishes he knew <i>why</i>. This is their <i>pack</i>; Stiles should be able to trust them, even with something like the truth about his time with the nogitsune. "Peter knows," Stiles says, fingers digging into Peter's hips. "That's good enough." </p>
<p>"I know it wasn't you," Lydia says. "I know the two of you were split by then and that you aren't responsible for its actions. You never were. But it killed my best friend, Stiles. If I have to accept the way you feel about it, then you have to do the same for me. I will <i>never</i> forgive that thing for what it did. There is literally <i>nothing</i> you could tell me that would ever change my mind." </p>
<p>Peter opens his mouth but Stiles moves enough to put one finger across Peter's lips. "I understand," Stiles tells Lydia. "So let's try not to bring him up. Okay? Truce?" </p>
<p>Stiles looks away from Peter, then, and Peter follows Stiles' gaze to see Lydia clearly weighing up whether or not to press. </p>
<p>"Truce," she finally says. "But I can't -- I need to leave and calm down or I'm going to say some things that I'll regret. I'll -- I can take Danny, if he wants, and fill him in. If you want. But I can't be neutral about this, Stiles. I won't ever be able to be neutral." </p>
<p>"I'd like to hear it," Danny says. "The nogitsune -- I know a little about that, about what happened, but not enough." He pauses, eyes narrowing as he takes in the picture Peter and Stiles make, says, softer, "Definitely not enough. Stiles, I -- is it all right with you if I hear what Lydia has to say? And then whatever Peter will tell me? I mean," he says, snorting, "I don't even know what a nogitsune actually <i>is</i> but I get the feeling this is important." </p>
<p>Stiles takes a deep breath in, lets it out slow. "Yeah," he says. "I -- thanks. For not making me -- I might be able to talk about it someday. Not yet." He looks at Peter, then, gives Peter a smile all the more beautiful for the sadness written in it. "I trust Peter to tell you what he thinks you should know." He pushes lightly at Peter's chest, then, and tells Peter, "Scent them before they go. I'll -- I'm fine. Mal and I need to finish our homework; Lyds and Danny are already done, they're wasting time here anyway. I'm just gonna go upstairs and wipe this off," he says, gesturing at his shoulder. Stiles leans in, gives Peter a short, sweet kiss, and then squirms out from between Peter and the counter, disappearing up the stairs as silently as any shifter. </p>
<p>Derek brushes his hand across Peter's back, says, "I'll go help him," and follows Stiles upstairs. </p>
<p>Peter heads over for the three teenagers in the living room. Danny and Lydia pack up their homework and get their shoes on as Malia sits down on the couch, watching as Peter stops in front of Lydia. </p>
<p>"Are you going to ask Noshiko to join the pack?" Lydia asks, pausing mid-movement to look up at Peter. "Because I don't think I'll be able to forgive her for bringing the nogitsune here. Not anytime soon, anyway." </p>
<p>"Kira, I think," Peter says, eyes flicking to Malia, seeing her perk up at the name, scent swirling with happiness. "But if you don't want Noshiko as a pack member, I won't invite her." </p>
<p>Lydia's shoulders drop, just a hint, barely noticeable to a human but all-too-visible to the wolf's sight. "Good," she says, softly. There's a subtle shift to her torso, as if she's going to look upstairs, but then she doesn't, meets Peter's eyes instead. "I don't know what about the nogitsune Stiles could <i>miss</i>." She pauses, asks, "It really hurts him?" </p>
<p>"Stiles wouldn't expect anyone to understand," Peter says, "and he's not asking anyone to try. But yes, it hurts him." </p>
<p>"I just don't get him sometimes," Lydia admits, and this time she does look over her shoulder. When she turns back to Peter, there's a small, sad smile on her lips. "But I don't think any of us do, do we." </p>
<p>Peter returns Lydia's smile, gathers her up in his arms, careful and gentle, and runs his nose across her hair, leaves the press of his scent on the back of her neck with a swipe of his fingers. He doesn't reply to her statement; any answer he could give her wouldn't help and any platitudes would be wasted. Instead, he says, "Tell Danny what you want about the nogitsune. Stiles has told me some of the reasons behind his feelings but clearly doesn't want the rest of the pack to know. I'm not happy about that but I'm not going to push; it's a deeply personal thing to him and we all have to respect that. But he does recognise that by <i>not</i> saying anything, he's choosing not to engage with our opinions." </p>
<p>Lydia backs up when Peter lets her go, gives him a look. "It upsets you, doesn't it," she says. "When he won't talk to you." </p>
<p>"More than I could ever put into words," Peter agrees. "But, again, that's his choice and I have no right to ask for anything more than he's willing to give." </p>
<p>"You're his mate," Danny says, coming up to stand next to Lydia, brushing against her lightly so she knows that he's there, "and his alpha. Doesn't that give you, I don't know, <i>some</i> sort of right? More right than the rest of us?" </p>
<p>Peter lets out a deep breath. "The only reason he's told me what he has," Peter says, "is <i>because</i> I'm his mate. But he's -- complicated. I might be his alpha and his mate, and he might be my emissary, but Stiles is -- but <i>what</i> Stiles is, that tilts the scale in his favour, not mine. I'm coming to terms with it," he says, remembering last night, the way that the light of the Spark seemed to take over the world for that brief moment, how drained and achy Peter felt this morning. It seems like a lifetime ago, already, and he wonders if it's just because so much has happened over the course of the day, or if Stiles has done something to ease the pain and terror of the memories, gloss them over so Peter feels like he's hearing the story of someone else's experiences instead of remembering his own. "It's going to take a while for all of us, I think." </p>
<p>Danny tilts his head a little, an unconscious movement, Peter guesses, but he still takes the chance and reaches out, brushes his hand down Danny's neck to leave his scent behind. Danny makes a noise like he <i>feels</i> it; maybe he does, being what he is. He doesn't hesitate to reach out himself, brush his hand down Peter's arm. </p>
<p>"The day Stiles <i>isn't</i> complicated," Danny says, as he grins at Peter, "is the day the world ends. Will he need a ride to school in the morning? I didn't see his Jeep outside." </p>
<p>"Derek's rebuilding the engine," Peter says. "One of us will drop him off in the morning, but thank you for offering." </p>
<p>Danny grins. "Anytime, alpha," he says, and when Peter opens the door, he's the first outside. </p>
<p>"His mentor's really a demon summoner?" Lydia asks on her way out the door. At Peter's nod, she lets out an explosive sigh, mutters, "Aw, hell," and then leaves. </p>
<p>Peter watches Danny pull out and leave, waits until Lydia's car turns onto the street, and then closes the door, rests his head against it for a moment. </p>
<p>When he turns, Malia's watching him. "Why is everyone having such an issue with Stiles?" she asks. "He's alpha, just like you, and they don't have a problem with you." </p>
<p>Peter lets out a deep breath and walks over to the couch, sits down next to where Malia's perched, arms wrapped around her legs, chin resting on her knees. He pats her hand, says, "They accepted the pack bite from me; they submitted to me as alpha when they joined the pack. I guess -- I think they look at Stiles and see the mouthy klutz with ADHD he's always pretended to be."</p>
<p>"That's stupid," Malia says blunt as always. </p>
<p>Lydia has seen the Spark's eyes; she knows what he is on an intellectual level, but the awesome and terrifying reality of what a Spark <i>is</i> has escaped her for now. They haven't even told Danny what Stiles is yet -- there just seems to be so much he needs to be taught, and fast, that sometimes Peter wonders where to even start. Maybe they should start with the Spark. Maybe Lydia and Danny should <i>both</i> be forced to confront how small and insignificant they really are in the face of the Spark's power. That would, without a doubt, impress upon them just how much respect they should have for Stiles and for the level of control Stiles possesses. </p>
<p>Peter smiles. "I couldn't," he tells Malia, "agree more."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's a hassle to get Malia up in the morning; she wakes as a coyote, squashed between Derek and Stiles, and bares her teeth when Peter tries to prod her out of bed. Stiles manages to get her moving, though she goes downstairs still in her fur. </p><p>"You two sleep in," Stiles says, as he gets out of bed to follow Malia. "You both deserve it. I'll get Malia going and text someone for a ride." Derek protests, yawning, but subsides when Stiles merely flicks him on the forehead, snapping his human teeth at Stiles but then rolling over and burying his face in the pillow. </p><p>"Take my car," Peter says. "I'm not planning on going anywhere today. Just make sure you don't get detention; we've got Satomi once you're out of school." </p><p>Stiles brightens at the reminder, mouths, '<i>Rania</i>' at Peter, and Peter starts chuckling because -- that's right, isn't it. Derek gets to meet the firebrand that is Rania Mansouri today. </p><p>Cheered by that thought, and the kiss Stiles gives him before he gathers up a bunch of clothes for both him and Malia, Peter watches Stiles leave the bedroom and then stretches, sinking back into the mattress. He closes his eyes, listens as Stiles gets some food and coaxes Malia back to two legs. It takes longer than Peter expected for the sound of Malia's grumbling to turn from growl-whining to English, though he thinks that he wouldn't be excited to get up and go to school either. They both get dressed, Stiles cajoles Malia into eating something along <i>with</i> her bacon, and then the house descends into a comfortable silence after they leave. </p><p>It's a few minutes later when Derek turns his head, asks, "What's <i>really</i> on the agenda for today?"</p><p>"We should go pick up a rental for Stiles to use while you're working on the Jeep," Peter says. "Other than that, I really hadn't planned on leaving until the meeting later. I have some prep to do for this afternoon, though I don't think Satomi will come up with anything surprising, and there are a few things I want to follow up on with the house. I --," he starts, stops. "I thought maybe -- I haven't talked to Stiles about the emancipation issue yet. But I thought about looking for rings." </p><p>Derek turns onto his side, facing Peter. "Wedding rings? You think he'd prefer marriage to emancipation?" </p><p>"It would be easier," Peter says, "and I like the thought of there being something the humans recognise about my claim on him. It's not strictly necessary, but --." </p><p>He trails off, and Derek scoffs, says, "Your wolf isn't any more or less possessive than the rest of ours. It makes sense. Has Stiles said anything about what he likes? I don't think I've seen him wear any kind of accessory other than his watch; would he even wear a ring?" </p><p>There was one night they talked about it; that memory's stuck in Peter's mind like a small grain of sand turned into a pearl with the number of times Peter's thought about it. </p><p>It was late at night, only a couple of weeks after the nogitsune. Stiles still moved slow, careful, as if he was one wrong gesture away from shattering into dust just like the nogitsune had, and at a time when he needed pack around him to soothe him, no one could stand to look at him. The younger members of the pack were all still reeling from how much and how fast everything had changed, and Peter didn't begrudge them that, but he loathed them for the way they all but abandoned Stiles. McCall wasn't talking to him, Lydia didn't answer his phone calls or texts; the only one who spent any time with Stiles was Malia, who didn't understand the emotional undercurrents swirling around all of them. </p><p>That night, Stiles' father had come home after his shift only to pack up dinner for himself and leave again, not even bothering to go upstairs and knock on Stiles' door to tell his son -- his <i>son</i>, who had just survived a brutal possession -- good night. Stiles had listened, had waited, and when the sheriff left, Stiles came over to the townhouse. He smelled despondent, sad discouragement hanging in a cloud around him, so heavy it drowned out the rest of his scent, a thick layer of grave rot and burning charcoal emanating from Stiles instead of the usual tinge of bloody cotton and lemony tobacco. </p><p>The two of them curled up on the couch, Peter catching up on some of the television he missed during his coma, Stiles halfheartedly playing on his phone, and the subject had come up when one of the characters in the sitcom proposed to the other. Stiles mentioned his parents, sounded wistful as he said that his father still wore his ring, and Peter had asked him, "Would you wear a wedding ring?" </p><p>There had been a spike in Stiles' heart rate, some flicker in his scent that came and went too fast for Peter to decipher, and Stiles said -- </p><p>"He told me once that it would have to be simple," Peter says, remembering that night, the way the light from the phone and the television lit up Stiles' face, the way that his scent turned and spun through so many emotions so fast. </p><p>Looking back on it now, Peter doesn't know how much of that night was Stiles and how much was the mask he wore. He didn't have pack bonds to the rest of them, he didn't care about the distance his father was putting between them, but Peter supposes that the loss of the nogitsune, his soul-twin, explains the scent, the ache, the sorrow that Stiles seemed to wear like a second skin. He was in mourning, just not for the things and people Peter had assumed at the time. </p><p>Peter shakes off the realisations, gives Derek a tight smile. "He said that he was bound to lose it at least once, so he didn't want anything too expensive to replace. Tungsten, he said. He -- he knew about the courtship, by then, I'm sure of it. He laughed when he suggested tungsten." </p><p>Tungsten, also known as 'wolf soot,' and an inert metal as well, safe around magic. Stiles was always trying to let Peter know that he accepted the courtship, that he was ready for mating, Peter thinks. Peter just hadn't picked up on the hints. </p><p>"How long ago was this?" Derek asks. "Recently?" Peter nods and Derek says, "I bet he hasn't changed his mind since then. So -- okay. We'll go pick up a car for Stiles and then you can start looking at rings. I have a few more parts to try and track down for the Jeep. Do you -- I could head back to the loft, or --" </p><p>"Nonsense," Peter says, cutting Derek off, inhaling as the reluctance in Derek's scent dissipates into something happier, something pleased. "Unless you wanted to pick up some clothes, there's no need to leave." He hesitates, doesn't know how he feels about laying so much of himself bare in front of his nephew, but the bond between them throbs with affection and comfort, so Peter takes strength from that and adds, softly, "I like having you here. Close. It's -- soothing." </p><p>Derek wriggles, closing the scant distance between him and Peter, until he's able to lay against Peter, cheek pressed to Peter's arm, one foot curling around the curve of Peter's heel. "Mom wasn't a good alpha to you, either, was she," Derek says. </p><p>Peter moves one arm so he can brush fingertips along Derek's hand. "She cared about all of us," Peter says, "but I see a lot of similarities between her and McCall, sometimes. Your mother was just -- less naive about the world."</p><p>"You think she ever wished she was human?" Derek asks. </p><p>"More as a child," Peter says, thoughtfully. "She liked having the power, the respect, when she was older. She liked the status that came with being a Hale. But -- yes. I think if it was her choice, she would've chosen human rather than wolf."   </p><p>Derek goes quiet, eventually murmurs, "I think Laura liked being alpha. She just --. I think she would've chosen to be human, too, if being a wolf meant being saddled with me." </p><p>Peter feels his fangs threaten to drop. Derek flinches; Peter pulls his nephew in close, doesn't allow Derek to leave, either physically or out of this quiet kind of emotional sharing they've settled into. "Your sister only had Talia as an example," Peter points out, "and she inherited the alpha spark much more violently than she'd been prepared for. The way the packbonds shattered -- it had to affect her inheritance even beyond the trauma of losing her family and feeling like her home wasn't safe anymore. None of which," he's quick to add, and firmly at that, "is your fault." He pauses, then, unsure of how to ask what he wants, not sure if he should, but Derek nudges his chin against Peter's chest in silent question. "Was there any -- were you ever happy in New York? Once you two left, once you -- was there ever any happiness?" </p><p>Derek's silent -- not, Peter thinks, because he's refusing to answer, but because he's thinking back, trying to remember. With every quiet moment that passes, Peter's heart breaks a little more. For him, the time between the fire and Laura's death was six years that felt like six hundred, his wolf abandoned, his body catatonic, his mind broken and burning, over and over again. Even the antiseptic scents of the hospital, first, and then the long-term care centre weren't enough to get the stench of ash and burnt flesh and <i>agony</i> out of his nose. He remembers hoping, once or twice, when his mind surfaced enough to look around desperately for pack bonds, that the two who'd survived were at least happy; he felt poisonous, thinking it then, that they would so easily abandon him for <i>safety</i>. Now, he just hopes that Derek really <i>did</i>.</p><p>"There were times," Derek finally says. "Not often. But moments. I -- there was a trail through Forest Park I used to jog every morning. If I timed it right, the way the sun shone through the trees, it was -- beautiful. I didn't -- I didn't always feel like I deserved that. But it made me feel better to know that something like that could exist." Derek lets out a deep breath. "Other things. There was this bodega near the apartment; the owner always gave me extra food and candy when I went in to pick up groceries. She told me I was too skinny but I think she just liked me 'cause I was a white kid who spoke Spanish. A bookstore in Astoria -- I'd go there sometimes and read all day. There was a Jamaican restaurant in Bed-Stuy I went to a lot when Laura wasn't around. They were pretty cheap but the food was good and the people were friendly. One of the owner's kids helped me study for my GED after he saw me going through a workbook once. He teased me a lot," Derek says. "Kinda -- the way he did it, the things he said, it -- sometimes he reminded me of you."</p><p>"I'd like to hear about it," Peter says, once it's clear that Derek's not going to say anymore. "When you're ready to talk about it." </p><p>Derek shifts a little, scent calming down into something smooth, like a lake's glass-sheen surface even when there's the possibility of dangerous things happening deeper underwater. "After Laura settled down, I -- I guess I felt too guilty to enjoy it the way she did. Too -- tense. I was always expecting something to go wrong. Sometimes people said things and I'd -- I mean, it seems stupid to --" </p><p>"It's not stupid," Peter says, "to think that you'd have PTSD or something like it after what happened. To be honest? I'd be more worried if you didn't. You did the best you could, you survived, and now -- after everything -- you're still so young, Derek. You deserve to rest." </p><p>Derek turns his head down; Peter can feel the brush of eyelashes against his skin, knows that Derek has closed his eyes. It makes sense, Peter realises, when Derek asks, quietly, "It wasn't my fault?" </p><p>Peter's heart could break, right now, and it would hurt less than hearing Derek ask that, sounding impossibly young, so full of hope and fear at the same time that Peter honestly wonders how Derek can bear it. </p><p>"It wasn't your fault," Peter says. </p><p>Pressed against him the way Derek is, there's no chance Derek can miss hearing the way Peter's heart stays steady. </p><p>--</p><p>They eventually get out of bed. Derek scurries out of the bedroom and into the bathroom with his head down like he's ashamed he's shown weakness, but his scent swirls with more hope than fear, now, so Peter will let it slide. He stays a moment longer, breathes in the scent of pack, of Derek's openness and Malia's fur and Stiles' -- come, oh god, he needs to wash the sheets again. Still, when Peter gets up, pulls on sweats and a t-shirt, when he starts to strip the bed and then remakes it with his spare set of sheets, he's smiling. </p><p>The smile holds through a breakfast of bagels piled high with sliced meats and cheeses, through his own shower, through a trip to the local Hertz, and back to the house. Peter's alone -- Derek had opted to go to the loft on his way back from the rental agency and pick up some clothes and a couple books, but Peter came straight back -- and he takes the opportunity to call the butcher and place an order for a truly <i>stunning</i> amount of meat as well as signing up for their co-op. He checks his phone, then, and replies to a text from Stiles and one from Malia, sets a pot of water boiling for pasta, and sits down at the counter, laptop in front of him. </p><p>No matter how much Peter wants to look for rings first, he has an alliance meeting to prepare for. </p><p>--</p><p>He's deep in a reread of their old alliance treaty with the Ito pack when Derek gets back, letting himself in and dropping a duffle to the floor in the living room. Peter glances up just for a moment before his attention's back on the treaty, finishing one paragraph. He says, absently, jotting down a note, "Fresh pasta in the fridge, picked it up at the grocery store on Sunday. Water's boiling; do the honours?" </p><p>Derek snorts but takes off his shoes and heads inside the kitchen, setting his laptop on the counter next to Peter before following directions. "Interesting reading?" he asks, peering over the yellowed stack of papers once he's turned the stove temperature up a little and dumped in the tortellini. "Why does it smell like fox?" </p><p>Peter notes his place and sets the papers down. He gives Derek a look, says, "Apparently the nogitsune stumbled upon the vault when he was possessing Stiles. There's only a faint trace of his scent left but I could practically see fingerprints on this when I pulled it out of the folder." Derek raises an eyebrow; Peter smiles, remembering Stiles once saying that Derek's eyebrows spoke a language all their own, and says, "Our old treaty with the Ito pack. He was very interested in reading it, start to finish." Peter flips back a few pages, uses the tip of his pencil to point out a couple very small holes in one side. "Claw marks. Didn't like what he was reading, I'm guessing. I don't know <i>why</i>, though."</p><p>Derek opens his laptop, entering the password and double-clicking on an Excel file before heading back to the stove and stirring the pasta. "Think Stiles would tell you?" he asks, sounds and smells hesitant. </p><p>"Maybe," Peter admits. "Though I don't know if it's worth asking." </p><p>"Because of the way he smells when he talks about it," Derek guesses. He fishes out one of the tortellini, pokes at it a couple times before taste-testing it. Evidently finding it done enough, Derek turns off the stove and starts straining out the water, asking, as he does, "Does -- should -- I don't even know how to ask what I want. Is there any reason to be worried?" </p><p>Peter makes a thoughtful noise, tries to decide what to tell Derek even as he gets up and takes down two bowls, grabs a half-full jar of vodka sauce from the fridge. While Derek's portioning out the pasta into two bowls, Peter heats up the sauce in the microwave, taking the opportunity to consider Derek's question. He thinks Stiles' reluctance last night was mostly directed at Lydia and Danny, someone who lost close friends to the nogitsune and a person who doesn't even know what a nogitsune is, not at Derek or Malia. On the other hand, Stiles refused to say anything and who is Peter to second-guess that? </p><p>"The nogitsune went half-mad, trapped in the nemeton," Peter finally says, after the microwave's beeped and he's dumped sauce into both of their bowls, setting the empty jar in the sink to clean.  "And I was insane the first time I offered Stiles a mating bite. Why do you think it is that the most messed up of us gravitate to him? That we feel drawn to him?" </p><p>WIth the dirty dishes left to soak and take care of later, Peter takes fresh parmesan out of the fridge and slides it onto the counter along with two bottles of water. Derek takes the food over to the counter, slides onto the stool next to Peter's, and Peter follows him, pushing his computer and the treaty back a little, away from the food. </p><p>"The nogitsune was also one of the most powerful creatures we've ever faced," Derek points out, "and you had the Hale spark, which -- I carried it, I felt it. It was strong. Probably nothing like the spark you took from Deucalion but more than enough to knock me off balance for weeks. The only time I felt remotely close to being myself was when I was around Stiles; there's something -- despite his ridiculous energy and the mood swings, being around him is calming, almost. So it's not just the crazy thing, it's the power, too -- powerful things are drawn to Stiles. I'd assume it has something to do with the Spark but if he wasn't a Spark during your first round as an alpha -- I don't know. But, Peter. You're asking me to compare you and the nogitsune in relation to Stiles and all I'm coming up with is bonding. From what you and Stiles have said, you were already courting by the time he was possessed, so it couldn't have been a mating bond. Did -- did Stiles have a <i>pack</i> bond with the fox?" </p><p>Peter shakes his head. Stiles said last night that he trusted Peter to tell the rest of the pack what <i>Peter</i> thought they should know -- and Peter trusts Derek. "Family bond," he says, after he and Derek have both taken a couple bites of food. "Because they merged, it -- twins." </p><p>Derek drops his fork -- thankfully it lands in the bowl and doesn't splatter sauce everywhere. "Fam -- <i>twins</i>. Shit. No wonder he smells hurt. Why wouldn't he want -- Lydia would accept that." </p><p>Peter lets out a deep breath, asks, "Would she? You and I both know that people have to be <i>supremely</i> compatible to form any kind of deeper bond, but twinning, that's <i>soul</i> deep. What would Lydia think, knowing that her best friend is soul-compatible with a creature that killed her former best friend? Her boyfriend? That wanted to use her, at the very least, and wouldn't have thought twice about killing her if she got in his way?" </p><p>Derek looks like he doesn't know how to answer that. He opens his mouth a couple times as if to say something, closes it again each time like he can't find the words. Peter understands. Hell, Peter was stunned when Stiles told him and he <i>still</i> has moments when he can't believe Stiles agreed to mate with him. </p><p>"Anyway," Peter says. "For now, we wait until Stiles feels comfortable talking to Lydia about it. We respect his mourning, as he wants, we eat, and we try to figure out why your mother let the alliance with Satomi slip when I'm not seeing anything here," and he gestures with his fork at the old treaty, "that would explain it. Nothing outrageous at all, no real agreements apart from unspecified mutual aid, enough loopholes that even <i>McCall</i> would be able to find them. Seems like it should've been effortless to uphold." </p><p>Derek lets out a deep breath, picks up his fork. "Good luck with that," he says, dryly, still seems the slightest bit off-balance, like he's thinking about something even though he's trying not to. </p><p>Peter elbows Derek, laughs at the glare Derek turns in his direction, and gets back to eating. The sooner he finishes lunch, the sooner he can get back to the treaty. </p><p>--</p><p>By the time school should be letting out, Peter's got three pages of notes on the old treaty and one page of bullet-pointed questions he needs to ask Satomi before they finalise a new one. He's also ordered three new sets of sheets, bookmarked a couple rings that he sort of likes the look of, and has started putting together a snack for him, Derek, and Stiles, that they can eat in the car on the way to the community centre. When Stiles comes clattering inside, dropping his backpack on the couch and brushing cheeks with Derek, Peter has a thermos of coffee ready to go as well. </p><p>"How was --" Peter gets out before Stiles faceplants into Peter. </p><p>"School sucked, you're amazing, do I have time for a shower?" Stiles asks. </p><p>Peter makes a show of sniffing but he inhales deep, finds a lot of trace contact scents on Stiles. "Yes," he says, when the slight tang of other alpha hits his nose and makes him want to bare fangs. "Definitely. If you hurry." </p><p>Stiles stands up straight, leans to give Peter a kiss, and says, "I'll hurry," before running for the stairs and taking them two at a time. </p><p>Peter, having watched Stiles go, turns to see Derek blinking at him. Peter raises an eyebrow and Derek says, "Are you <i>sure</i> he's actually a Spark?" </p><p>Peter laughs. Inside, though, he wonders if Stiles is reverting to the mask he always wore rather than being the person, the Spark, that he truly <i>is</i>. He's seen, he thinks, a few times where Stiles has been more the deception than the truth -- but he's also seen the way Stiles was with Malia when she had Argent's blood all over her, the stand Stiles took last night in refusing to apologise or assuage Lydia's anger, can't help but shudder at the memory of Stiles unleashing more of his magic than Peter's <i>ever</i> seen to smack down Peter's demand for explanation the night Danny joined them. </p><p>Perhaps it's simply a gradual thing; it must take time to disassemble the persona that Stiles has hidden behind for years. As well, Stiles has just come from school, and while Lydia and Malia know the truth of what Stiles is and Danny's had a taste of it, no one else would understand. Stiles has probably spent all day lying, burying himself in the Stiles Stilinski that everyone else expects and Peter <i>hates</i> that, loathes it with every fibre of his being, wolf and man united in the thought that these people, these <i>sheep</i>, will never know what kind of presence they were in -- and he hates them for it at the same time he's so very, very thankful, because they don't deserve to know. They don't deserve Stiles at his most otherworldly, at his best and brightest and most beautiful. </p><p>"We'll have to leave once Stiles comes down," Peter says. "You ready?" </p><p>Derek narrows his eyes but doesn't push, merely flashes his throat and says, "Yes, alpha. I'll get my shoes on." </p><p>Peter puts away some of the dishes from lunch while he waits for Stiles. It's only about five minutes, though, before Stiles comes back down the steps. Peter turns at the noise, lets out a deep rumble of the wolf when he sees Stiles wearing one of his button-ups, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to display the scar of his mating bite, collar opened to show off the long, clean lines of Stiles' throat. Peter's eyes get caught on Stiles' neck for a long moment before he goes back to meeting Stiles' Spark-white eyes. The smile Stiles is wearing, small and quiet like the one Peter saw in Dallas, grows a little when Peter flashes red eyes at him. </p><p>Derek's heart rate, in the background, skips once, speeds a little before it steadies, but Peter finds himself completely unable to tear his eyes off of his mate. Peter goes over to the steps, lets his hands settle on Stiles' hips once Stiles gets to the ground, leans forward and runs his nose across Stiles' cheek.</p><p>"I'll put them away in front of the humans," Stiles says. "But Satomi knows what I am; if it's all right with you, I'll --" </p><p>"Yes," Peter says, cutting Stiles off. The wolf doesn't even grumble at the rudeness, too enamoured by the way Stiles smells like Peter and growing used to the fact that Peter's never going to stop interrupting when it suits him. </p><p>Stiles looks over Peter's shoulder, then, to Derek, and asks, bluntly, "Will you freak out if I have my scent out, too?" </p><p>"Only at how much you reek of my uncle," Derek snaps back, snarking without heat, though when Peter looks at his nephew, he sees Derek smiling, just a little, half-heartedly trying to hide the amusement. </p><p>"All right, you two, let's head out," Peter says, taking Stiles by the hand and dragging him into the kitchen. "Snack, coffee, you can eat in the car. I've made some notes and you can look at those if you promise not to get food on them." </p><p>He picks up his laptop and notepad, gestures for Stiles to get the coffee and food, and thirty seconds later, they're all trampling out of the house and to the car. </p><p>--</p><p>As soon as Peter parks in front of the community centre, a large building with walls of glass, surrounded by rock gardens and native plants, Stiles jumps out of the car and darts inside. By the time Peter and Derek catch up to him, Stiles is perched on the corner of a desk, talking animatedly in Arabic to a tiny woman wearing an oversized pair of glasses and a black headscarf, who keeps swatting at him to get off her desk. </p><p>She moves her attention from Stiles to Peter as soon as Peter gets close enough and says, exasperated, in an accented English, "Can you not control your young man, Peter? He's going to knock everything off my desk and I'll make <i>you</i> pick it up." </p><p>"Anything for you, Mrs. Mansouri," Peter says, wrapping his arms around Stiles' chest and pulling him off the desk. Stiles squawks at the move but doesn't fight Peter; instead, once Peter's let go of him, Stiles goes around the desk and kisses Rania's cheek. </p><p>She bats at Stiles, telling him to leave her alone, but the flush on her cheeks and the smile she's wearing both take the sting out of her words, as does the way she pats Stiles on the cheek once he squats down to her level, telling him, "Your pronunciation is getting better, my dear, but you still need work. How's the reading going?" </p><p>Stiles devolves into a rambling mess, words tripping over each other as he answers, telling her all about -- something. Peter gets lost quickly, can't understand how Rania's keeping up, even interjecting every so often, and he leans over to where Derek's watching the whole thing with more than a little trepidation. "If we don't interrupt them, they'll go for hours," Peter says. "I saw it once. Never again, Derek. Come on." </p><p>He nudges Derek forward and Rania stops mid-sentence when her eyes catch on Derek. "Oh. Oh, my," she says. "Who've you brought to meet me, Stiles?" </p><p>Stiles stands up, offers Rania a hand, says, "This is Derek, Nana Rania. He's Peter's nephew and my friend." </p><p>"Just <i>look</i> at you," Rania coos, ignoring Peter and Stiles to focus on Derek. She comes out from behind her desk, stands in front of Derek and gestures, says, "Bend down, chicken; let me look in your eyes." Derek glances at Peter, baffled expression on his face, but does as directed. Rania moves as if to pinch Derek's cheeks; at Derek's badly-hidden flinch, she pauses, lets the palms of her hands hover about an inch away from his skin instead. "Oh, yes. Gorgeous eyes. I don't even know what colour to call those; sea-sun, maybe, eh? Hmm, and those eyelashes, too. Show me your teeth, go 'grrrrrr,' come on." </p><p>Peter, unable to hold back his laugh at this point, says, "<i>Rania</i>, please." </p><p>Rania rolls her eyes but says, "Oh, <i>fine</i>, spoil an old woman's afternoon." She lets her hands drop though keeps her piercing gaze on Derek -- stare made all the more intense from the way her huge glasses seem to make her eyes look owlish. Peter's been under the same scrutiny before and he knows how it feels; he reaches over, puts one hand on Derek's shoulder to offer support. "Hmph. Well. What would you have me know of you, Derek Hale?" </p><p>"I didn't kill my sister," Derek blurts out. His cheeks go red almost instantly and he shifts under Peter's touch. "I -- I don't know why I said that. Sorry." </p><p>"Truth, though," Rania says. She purses her lips, takes all of Derek in, eyes scanning from top to toe, and says, "You put up with Stiles." In the background, Stiles makes a noise of offended outrage but doesn't say anything. "And Peter. That speaks to your character, young man. Patient, loyal, yes -- and a Hale, too. Takes strength to come back here after what your family's gone through." </p><p>Stiles edges up to stand next to Rania, murmurs, "Saved my life more than once. No exaggeration." </p><p>Rania glances at Stiles and Stiles nods. She harrumphs again, turns back to Derek and glares at him. "Are you as fed up with him as I am?"</p><p>"You have <i>no</i> idea," Derek says, and this time, as soon as he's realised what he's said, he lifts his eyes to the ceiling and just sighs. </p><p>It makes Rania laugh, though, and she waits until Derek's looking at her again, moves slowly to poke him in the shoulder, giving him the time to back away from her if he chooses. When he doesn't, she grins, brightly, and pokes him <i>hard</i>. "He's a good kid, when he wants to be," she says. "Make him look after you." </p><p>Derek gives Rania a smile, turns that smile on Stiles; Peter smells the way Stiles' scent brightens into the warm caramel of affection and happiness. "He does," Derek tells Rania. "More than he should, sometimes." </p><p>"Nonsense," Rania says. "Our Stiles is a caretaker; that's what he was made to do, so let him." She holds out her hand, then, and says, "Rania Mansouri. You may call me Rania if you'd like. Come on, I'll take you back to see Satomi." Derek offers his hand for a handshake but Rania moves too fast, winding her arm through Derek's and pulling him along with her. She beams up at him, says, "Tell me, do you like lamb? My husband, may god grant him rest, had this recipe --"</p><p>Peter, still standing in the entrance hall with Stiles, listens with human ears as Rania's chattering fades into white noise. Stiles leans into him, says, "She's adopted him," with something approaching stunned happiness. "Oh, no." </p><p>Peter nods, says, "Oh, <i>no</i>," in a strangled voice. "But at least he'll be safe in Beacon Hills?" </p><p>Stiles considers that, shakes his head. "With Beacon Hills, sure, but not with Rania." </p><p>"<i>Peter</i>!" Rania calls out, head appearing around the corner long enough to add, "Come <i>on</i>!" before disappearing again. </p><p>Stiles lets out a choking little laugh. "She's going to take him home and feed him to death," he says, faintly. "This was a mistake, Peter. This was -- we made a <i>big</i> mistake, fuck -- a <i>mammoth</i> tactical error." </p><p>Peter tilts his head to the side, says, "She didn't take <i>us</i> home and feed <i>us</i> to death." He can't decide if he should sound relieved or jealous, thinks maybe he's a bit of both. </p><p>"Oh, speak for yourself," Stiles says, elbows Peter hard. "She dragged me back to her house once and fed me so much I couldn't move for <i>hours</i>. Literally, I could not move and I missed curfew and I was grounded for <i>weeks</i>. Dad was furious." </p><p>That means that the sheriff's never been fed by Rania. He'd understand completely if he had been. Peter feels a sudden rush of vicious pleasure run through him. Rania feeds people she thinks will be useful and stuffs people she likes to the point of sickness; that the sheriff's never tasted her food means Rania doesn't even consider him worth keeping on her good side. How fascinating. Perhaps the sheriff really won't be missed if he meets with an unfortunate accident.</p><p>Peter takes a deep breath in, lets it out long and slow. "Come on," he tells Stiles. "Let's go rescue Derek, Satomi, and whoever Satomi brought with her. We've only got the room booked until the centre closes and I'd like to get this alliance squared away before we have to go." </p><p>"All right," Stiles says. He takes Peter's hand in his, laces their fingers together. "Let's go rescue the totally vicious werewolves from a four-foot-tall grandmother." </p><p>Peter squeezes Stiles' hand in rebuke, Stiles rolls his eyes, and they head for the meeting room, following Derek's scent. </p><p>--</p><p>Rania's deep into a monologue about honey when Peter and Stiles catch up. Derek gives Peter a pleading look and Peter bites his lip to keep from laughing. </p><p>"Nana, you are," Stiles says, rescuing Derek by curling an arm around Rania's shoulders and pulling her into a loose hug, "as always, a genuine delight. But we <i>are</i> late and I will not allow you to steal Derek and hide him away just when he's finally willing to go out in public." </p><p>Rania says something in Arabic, too fast for Peter to pick out individual sounds to try and decipher later, but Stiles replies just as fast, stumbling over his tongue once or twice, before leaning in and kissing Rania's cheek. </p><p>She swats at him, calls him something, Peter thinks, and swans off back to her desk. </p><p>Satomi, then, opens the door to the room she booked for their meeting, smile playing about her lips. "You've taken away the most entertaining thing that's happened in weeks, Stiles," she says, chiding. "I do hope you're prepared to make up for it." </p><p>Stiles, bright grin on his face, turns to Satomi. "We brought Derek," he says, tilting his head in Derek's direction. Satomi's eyes don't leave Stiles' face. "He'll help me unbalance the alpha if the opportunity presents itself; you've never seen anything until you've seen Peter get all flustered." </p><p>Satomi inclines her head and moves out of the doorway, gesturing for them to come inside. Stiles goes first, then Derek, and Peter trails them both, closing the door behind him. The blinds are already closed and with the door shut, they can do proper greetings now, out of the sight of humans. </p><p>A man, tall and stick-thin, wearing a pendant that hangs in the hollow of his throat, steps up next to Satomi, just as a middle-aged brunette moves to Satomi's right. Peter squeezes in between Derek and Stiles, brushing his hand across Derek's back as he moves, sending reassurance down his bond to Derek and anticipation through his bond with Stiles. </p><p>Satomi waits, it seems, for Peter to offer his wrist; when he doesn't, she raises an eyebrow and says, "I may be old, Alpha Hale, but your pack wields more power. In this, you have the rank." </p><p>"Power is one thing," Peter says, "but wisdom is another. In that, the rank is yours. Also," he adds, less formally, "it's been a long time since you've offered me your wrist. I'd like to refamiliarise myself with your scent." </p><p>"Well-spoken," the man standing next to Satomi says. He's giving Peter an approving look but Peter's noticed that the man hasn't so much as glanced at Stiles yet. </p><p>Satomi sighs, says, "You've always had a clever tongue," and offers her wrist. </p><p>When Peter takes her hand and lifts it, bending his head but not low enough to display the back of his neck, he smells Satomi's favoured reishi tea deeper than skin, almost as if she's swallowed so much of it over the course of her life that it's become a part of her. Below that is the scent of trees, old and strong and well-rooted, bark and sap and the fresh growth of young spring leaves. There's a hint of burnt sugar, a touch of the cool, musty air that circulates through dirt caverns far underground, and there, below even that, the hot power of her wolf, tethered by nothing but self-control. </p><p>"Alpha Ito," Peter says, after he lets go of Satomi's hand and straightens back up. "Well met. As you requested, I've brought my second, my nephew Derek, with me. My emissary also accompanies me, as both emissary and mate. I believe," he says, dryly, "that the two of you are already acquainted." </p><p>Stiles has had the full weight of his scent out but now he drops the pretense of humanity from his eyes as he inclines his head. Satomi doesn't flinch at the sight of Spark-white eyes, bright and shining, but Peter doesn't think he's imagining the tinge of familiar awe that floats around the edges of her scent as Stiles says, "Well met, Alpha Ito." </p><p>"Alpha Hale, Derek, Stiles -- well met," Satomi replies. "My emissary, Kristian," she says, as the man on Satomi's left nods his head, eyes taking in and dismissing Derek, narrowing as they dance over Peter, then fixing on Stiles with a glacial glare, "who has been serving my pack for these last seven years. My second, who chose for herself the name Megumi when she joined my pack, and in less casual situations prefers to go by Meg." At this, the woman nods, a sharp movement that sends her brown hair, cut to shoulder length, swinging. Peter's eyes catch the small stud earrings Megumi's wearing, engraved with the same symbol on Kristian's pendant: the Ito pack symbol, three rocks of varying sizes balanced on top of each other. </p><p>"Emissary Ito, Beta Megumi, a pleasure to meet you," Peter says. He meets their gaze, one after the other, then looks back at Satomi and offers his wrist. When Satomi takes it, to impress his scent upon her wolf's memory, she bends lower than Peter had, her head tilted to one side to show off her neck to Stiles. Peter gets a quicksilver impression of amused fondness in his bond to Stiles though Stiles' scent never changes. </p><p>Satomi finishes, straightens, notes, "Your scent is deeper than Hale alphas of the past. Stronger. That speaks well to an alliance between our packs." She gestures at the table, then, and asks, "Shall we?" </p><p>Peter nods, pulls out the chair for Stiles and brushes his hand along the line of Stiles' shoulder blades as Stiles sits down. </p><p>--</p><p>Peter and Satomi do most of the talking over the next few hours. Derek speaks up a couple times, as does Megumi, but Kristian keeps his eyes focused on Stiles, hardly blinking, stare growing colder and more hate-filled with every minute that passes. Stiles lounges in his chair, seems content to ignore Kristian, though every time Peter feels his wolf starting to stir at the scent of prey or predator coming from the other side of the table, Stiles pours comfort through their bond. He flares his scent, too, every so often, which soothes Peter and Derek, looks as though it calms Satomi as well. </p><p>With the majority of their alliance hammered out, Kristian finally leans forward, elbows on the table, and asks, "And what would the Spark have of us?" </p><p>Satomi says his name under her breath, Megumi gives him wide eyes, Derek starts to growl. Peter opens his mouth to respond but Stiles does before Peter can say anything. "I'm here as emissary and mate, Emissary Ito," he says, and Peter doesn't have to look to see the smile on Stiles' mouth and the way it doesn't go anywhere near his eyes. "Not as Spark." </p><p>"Forgive me, <i>Emissary</i> Hale," Kristian says. "But no one here will ever believe you could be anything <i>but</i> the Spark. You claim to be mated, fine. You've been granted the title of emissary -- disrespectful but understandable. But this is <i>your</i> pack, not Alpha Hale's, or are we to assume that you plan to vow adherence to this treaty?" </p><p>Derek snarls, starts to get up; Peter puts a hand on Derek's shoulder. "Calm," he says. "Just because the man's an idiot doesn't mean we can tear him apart. That's Alpha Ito's responsibility. Of course," Peter goes on, fixing his gaze on Satomi, "if she gives us the right or shirks her own duty, things may change." </p><p>Megumi sits up straight at that, says, "Alpha Ito has <i>never</i> ignored her duties to the pack or the land. She wouldn't know how. Not like the <i>Hales</i>." </p><p>"My family has never --" Peter starts to say. </p><p>Megumi cuts him off. "Your sister was a failure as a wolf and as an alpha," she says. "We all know that. Your niece abandoned her territory and her responsibilities. She abandoned <i>you</i>, and then when you killed her for her neglect, you <i>wasted</i> it on vengeance against the <i>Argents</i>. Better to throw yourself against a wall for all the good that did. Your nephew, the one you now claim as beta, let a kanima loose on the territory and then allowed it to be bound into the service of --" </p><p>This time, Stiles is the one who interrupts -- and he does so merely by tapping his fingers against the table, a quick rhythm that has Megumi going pale, eyes dropping as she tilts her head to the side to bare her neck. Still slouched back in his chair, the subtle glow of Stiles' power starts to pulse around him in a counterpoint-rhythm to his heartbeat, sunlight beginning to take form in little buzzing sparks like fireflies. </p><p>"Talia was a shit alpha," Stiles says. "Fine. We all agree there; you're right. But Laura was terrified that the Argents would come after the survivors. With the way this world reacts to their name, to know that the <i>Argents</i> are aligned against them? Anyone else would have done the exact same thing and fled an almost-guaranteed death sentence. As for Derek," and Peter feels the bond he shares with his nephew grow cold, preparing for hurt. Peter sends support through the bond and Derek does, finally, start to relax a little as he takes in what Stiles goes on to say. "He was untrained when he inherited the Hale spark and the spark itself was tainted by madness. He had no support, no guidance, <i>nothing</i>. He did everything he could in a territory holding a nemeton crying out for blood and I defy anyone else in his circumstance to do better." </p><p>The scent of Stiles' fury builds, slow and steady, ozone crackling in random spots throughout the room like miniature lightning strikes. Kristian either doesn't care or can't tell; he sneers at Stiles and says, "Alpha Ito offered to help. <i>You</i> turned her down." </p><p>Derek reeks of hurt surprise. Peter puts his hand on his nephew's knee, squeezes just a little. "With all due respect to Alpha Ito," Peter says, "Beacon Hills is not her territory." </p><p>"But she could have served as mentor," Kristian snaps. "She could have prevented --" </p><p>Stiles cuts him off. "My decision was not made in haste," he says, "and Satomi and I spent hours discussing the possibilities each and every time something new came up. You should know," he adds with a look of complete disdain. "You complained about it every time I was over, whining like a child that you weren't included in our conversations." </p><p>Derek leans forward to look around Peter. "You considered it?" he asks, quietly. "You <i>honestly</i> thought it was better that I -- that we -- that -- that things happened the way they did?" </p><p>"No one could have known that a kanima was possible when one hasn't been sighted in this country for over sixty years," Stiles says, after a deep breath. "Satomi would not have been able to help -- though her entry into Beacon Hills would've drawn the attention of the Argents to her pack." Derek goes pale at that, as does Megumi. "The closest I came to asking Satomi for help was during the alpha pack's visit. But, again, if Satomi had chosen to involve herself in the debacle with the alpha pack, who's to say that Deucalion wouldn't have turned his sights on her? Decimating the Ito packlands would've been difficult but well worth it, especially with Beacon Hills so unstable. As for the darach -- she was a former emissary, well-trained and strong, who was using the power of the nemeton. What could Satomi have done against her and her magic?" He pauses, as if waiting for an answer. Derek shrugs, helplessly, but the hurt in his scent has evened out a little; it will fade more, Peter thinks, with time and acknowledgment that Stiles is right, that the disadvantages to embroiling the Itos in their messes were far more numerous than any advantages would have been. </p><p>"And the nogitsune?" Kristian asks, seething. "When a chaos demon invaded the town, possessed <i>you</i>, were <i>you</i> the one to keep Alpha Ito out of it or was it that <i>thing</i>?" </p><p>"I could have stepped in," Satomi says. "That I chose to believe in the power of the nemeton and Noshiko's promise is to my detriment and sorrow, and that Stiles paid the price for my failures is something that I have often grieved. I have offered blood price to you, Stiles, as the most injured party, but I would offer again to your alpha if you desire." </p><p>Stiles waves that away. "Not necessary then, nor now." </p><p>"You would not let your alpha decide, and yet you say <i>he</i> runs your pack," Kristian scoffs. </p><p>"Perhaps, Alpha Ito, your emissary would benefit from a refresher on pack law," Stiles suggests. It's clear that he's biting back a sneer, some harsher words, but the light around him is bright, now, enough that Kristian has his eyes narrowed against it. Peter thinks that speaks more to Stiles displeasure than any words ever could.</p><p>Satomi studies Stiles for a moment, then nods. "Perhaps he would," she agrees. </p><p>Kristian's mouth tilts up in a cruel smile -- though his cruelty, Peter realises suddenly, is nothing like what he's seen from Stiles. Kristian's temper is a cold thing, burning with frostbite, but Stiles' builds slow, goes as hot as the sun and bright enough to sear blindness into even the darkest, deadest thing. The fact that they can still see shadows in the corners of the room just means that Stiles isn't completely ready to wipe Kristian from the face of the planet. </p><p>"You give us a litany of reasons that the Hales don't deserve the condemnation we've heaped on them," Kristian says. "Then, perhaps, Spark, you do. After all, <i>you</i> chose not to do anything. You have more than enough power to destroy the Argents, the alpha pack, the darach. You could have forced the shift from the kanima or trapped the nogitsune. You didn't, though. You let your pack hurt. You let your pack die." </p><p>"I never held pack bonds with Derek when he was alpha," Stiles says. "When True Alpha McCall ascended, I chose not to cement pack bonds with him, either. I've told you that before. It's not my fault you never believed me. If you're going to accuse me of something, make it <i>legitimate</i>, at the very least." </p><p>Kristian stands up, then. Satomi looks set to stop him, to tell him to stand down, but Stiles shakes his head. Satomi purses her lips but subsides. </p><p>"Show us your bonds to Alpha Hale," Kristian challenges. "Show us your pack bond to his second. Prove you're their emissary." </p><p>"Easy enough," Stiles says. </p><p>A moment later, the sight of Peter and Stiles' bond springs into being. Peter feels the wolf howl in happiness at seeing it again: the thick, twining barbed metal that connects them and serves as Peter's anchor; the blood-drinking roses in full bloom with hungry thorns dripping poison and glinting in the light; the grapevine and ivy; the salt fruit and pomegranate seeds. The smell of ambrosia drips in the air around them. Peter reaches up, strokes the curve of one of the salt-grapes. </p><p>Another bond connects Stiles to Derek, no less thick but gleaming an amber colour tinged with blues and greens that reminds Peter of Derek's eyes. Derek gasps, seeing it, and when he looks at Peter in bewildered amazement, his eyes are wolf-blue. </p><p>Stiles leans forward, then, as the bonds shimmer out of view. "They are mine," he tells Kristian. "And I am theirs. The bonds are new but no less strong because of it. And, as you say," he goes on, standing up and facing Kristian with his hands at his side and the light of his Spark growing wings behind him too bright to look at, Megumi dropping silently out of the chair and to her knees at the sight, "I did nothing. I did nothing when the kanima was taking vengeance on its master's behalf. I did nothing when Gerard Argent took control of it. I did nothing when Gerard Argent kidnapped me and tortured me. I did nothing when the alpha pack invaded Beacon Hills. I did nothing when the darach began the five-fold knot of sacrifice. I did nothing when the nogitsune got free and wormed into my skin like he belonged there. I did <i>nothing</i> when he killed my friends and those that my friends and family loved -- but don't think my inaction in the past means <i>shit</i> anymore. I had my reasons then but I am pack-bound now, same as you. You don't like me, fine, I know that, we all know that, but I'm not going anywhere, so grow the fuck up already and stop upsetting your alpha like an errant <i>pup</i>." </p><p>Kristian does look away at that, looks right at Satomi and sees the look of complete disappointment on Satomi's face. "Alpha, I --" </p><p>"You <i>promised</i> you would behave," Satomi says. "Promised that this useless, one-sided feud wouldn't interfere with our alliance meeting."</p><p>"<i>Satomi</i>. We cannot trust that --" </p><p>Satomi's eyes flare red and Kristian goes silent. Even Peter's taken aback -- Satomi's famed for her control and rarely expresses any sign of her true nature. Seeing her wolf eyes, the dark and bloody crimson of them, shows just how absolutely <i>furious</i> she is. </p><p>Kristian sits down slowly, baring his throat to his alpha but watching with a sneering hatred as Stiles collapses back onto his chair in a heap. By the time Stiles is lounging in the chair again, there's no sign of his power apart from the Spark-white of his eyes, everything else pulled back inside and hidden away, though the stench of ozone lingers in the air. Peter nudges him through the bond and Stiles glances at him; Peter can't smell the fed-up bitterness but he doesn't need to. It's written all over Stiles' face. </p><p>"I see what you mean," Derek says, into the silence, "about <i>us</i> being your kind. Are they all like this?" </p><p>"Most of them," Stiles says. He ignores Derek's rumbling snarl and looks back at Kristian as he says, "There are a few who possess the good sense to make nice with a Spark instead of provoking one. A vanishingly rare number who decide to actually befriend it." </p><p>It, Stiles calls himself. Peter doesn't like what that hints at, what it means. </p><p>Kristian, who looked insulted at the insinuation, makes a noise of complete disdain. "Witches," he says. "Covens. People who lack a conscience and deal in immoral acts." </p><p>Peter thinks of Béa, thinks of Alex, thinks of the Cascade Coven offering to send one of their own down to face an assassin for the protection of Stiles' pack, thinks of Lydia and Danny and Mage Medina. People, he thinks, who <i>must</i> have a conscience, if only because the world is still spinning and those like Kristian are still living on it. </p><p>"I have no comments to add to the treaty," Stiles says, addressing Satomi. "My alpha speaks for me. If he's satisfied, then so am I." </p><p>Megumi pops her head above the table with that and lets out a deep sigh of relief when she sees that Stiles has wrapped his Spark back up. She climbs back into her chair, sits there exhausted, shaking a little, as though she's just survived something tortuous. With a tremulous smile pinned very obviously on Peter and no one else, she says, "I say we're good." </p><p>Derek nods as well. "I'm satisfied." </p><p>"As am I," Satomi says. Kristian opens his mouth to argue but Satomi flashes red eyes at him and says, "<i>No</i>. You have embarrassed me in front of friends and allies and called someone <i>who I hold in deep respect</i> a liar right to their face. Be thankful I don't cut you out of the pack for this." </p><p>"Satomi," Kristian breathes, face draining of colour. "I --" </p><p>She glares at him and he falls silent. "Alpha Hale, my apologies," she tells Peter. "But I think I'd best take my emissary home. I am content with what we've decided here today. If you would do me the favour of putting our agreements into words, I will sign in blood at the earliest opportunity." </p><p>Peter inclines his head, says, "Thank you, Alpha Ito. And -- good luck." </p><p>"<i>Magicals</i>," she huffs, as she stands. Peter, Derek, and Stiles stand as well, in respect, and Stiles opens the door. Satomi yanks Kristian along with her, pausing in front of Stiles just long enough to brush cheeks with him, before she leaves with her head held high. Megumi, still trembling and unsteady on her feet, trails them. </p><p>Stiles closes the door and leans against it. He brings his hands up to his face, rubs, and, when he's done, gives Peter and Derek a tired smile. "Sorry?" </p><p>Derek answers before Peter can. "No apologies. That guy's a <i>dick</i>." He pauses, then asks, "Are they -- they can't <i>all</i> be like that, can they? Is it really that bad?" </p><p>Stiles' eyes go distant; the expression on his face screams with self-loathing and his scent flares into something nauseatingly bitter. "That? Oh, that's <i>nothing</i>," he says. </p><p>Derek brushes past Peter, hauls Stiles up into a hug and presses Stiles' face into the curve of Derek's throat. "Ours," Derek says, "and fuck the rest of them. You're <i>ours</i>." </p><p>Stiles doesn't cry but Peter would swear he still smells tears.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They manage to escape the community centre without too much hassle. Rania isn't at her desk when they leave and Peter knows he'll pay later for skipping out on her without saying goodbye, but Stiles reeks of bad things, unhappy things, and Derek's going blue-eyed in flashes, so Peter doesn't feel at all guilty for pushing his packmates out in a hurry. </p>
<p>He gets them both back to the townhouse, tells Derek to get Stiles upstairs in bed. Stiles doesn't protest, just lets Derek tug him away -- which is worrying. Peter watches them go, then calls Malia and asks her if she'll get in trouble with her father if she leaves. She snorts, tells him they should just get a DNA test done so she can live with Peter but that she'll be over in a few minutes. He texts Lydia and Danny as well, tells them that he didn't get a chance to ask about Satomi teaching them pack law but that the alliance has been settled and that he, Derek, and Stiles are going to bed. Danny texts back quickly; it takes Lydia a few minutes but soon she has as well. </p>
<p>By that point, Malia's unlocking the front door with a key that Peter didn't know she had, backpack in her hand and one of Stiles' hoodies tied around her waist. She smells of fur and the preserve, scent bubbling over with contentment as she walks in but then bursting into plumes of concern as she takes in the lingering chemosignals from Derek and Stiles. "Got here as fast as I could," she says. "You sounded upset on the phone. What's wrong?" She takes off her boots and drops the hoodie on the back on the couch, inhaling deep as she moves, head cocked to one side as she filters through the scents. "Smells bad. The meeting?" </p>
<p>"Satomi's emissary jumped down Stiles' throat," Peter says. </p>
<p>Malia bares her teeth, eyes going blue, and she nods once. "We'll kill him later," she says, heading for the stairs. "Stiles can tell us how." </p>
<p>All the essentials taken care of, Peter stops in the middle of the room and closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. He checks on his pack bonds, lets the steadiness of them all -- even Stiles', somehow -- calm his wolf. When Peter thinks he's able to move again without losing control of the shift, he makes sure the front door is locked and all the windows are closed before going upstairs. He sneaks into the bathroom, goes through his evening routine quickly, straightens the towel that Stiles left bunched on the rack earlier, sheds his jeans and shirt and dumps those, along with his socks, into the laundry basket. </p>
<p>That done, Peter goes into the bedroom and stops, blinks. He can't see Stiles, who has apparently pulled Derek half on top of him and then has his other half buried under Malia's coyote form, only one of Stiles' feet visible from where it's sticking out from under the blanket. He has no idea how Stiles can even breathe under all of that weight. Peter climbs onto the bed carefully, not willing to unbalance anyone, and when he finally lays down on the other side of Stiles, he strokes the edge of Stiles' foot with his. </p>
<p>Stiles flinches and, for a moment, Peter thinks he's fucked up, but then Stiles mutters, "Feels weird, 's'all." Stiles lifts his foot, Peter slides his under, and then one hand wriggles its way out from under Malia, who makes an unhappy rumbling noise at all the movement. "Sorry, Mal," Stiles says, even as he twines his fingers in with Peter's. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Peter wakes up when Stiles gets out of bed, brushing a hand down Malia's fur and pulling the blanket up around Derek's shoulders. He goes to use the bathroom then, instead of coming back to bed, heads downstairs; Peter hears as Stiles fills the kettle and turns on the stove. Malia looks up at him, yawns and then pushes at him with her snout. </p>
<p>"I'm going, I'm going," he tells her, low and quiet, though Derek shifts at the noise and makes a noise of inquiry. "Keep your cousin company." </p>
<p>Malia huffs but wriggles up the bed, curling into Derek, who wraps one arm around her belly and pulls her close. </p>
<p>Peter doesn't try to hide his footsteps; he's not surprised to see Stiles' back when he gets downstairs though he is disappointed to see the lines of tension in Stiles' shoulders and neck. Still, Stiles doesn't flinch or fight when Peter holds him, hooks his chin over Stiles' shoulder to watch with Stiles as the kettle slowly heats up. </p>
<p>"All of this power," Stiles says, a minute or two later, "and I still can't get people to <i>like</i> me." </p>
<p>"They're not worth it," Peter tells him. "And if they can't see you behind the Spark, they're not worth <i>you</i>." </p>
<p>Stiles lets out a breath. "I'm sorry that you're --" </p>
<p>"You're not apologising," Peter says, cutting him off. "I won't let you, not for them, not because of who you are. You're ours and we love you. Me, Malia, Derek, Lydia, we <i>love</i> you. People like Béa, like Soledad, others who I haven't met and who would probably also terrify me," he says, rewarded with a little snort from Stiles, "we love you." He takes a chance, then, adds, "The nogitsune loved you so much that he twinned with you. Derek and Mal and me, we love you so much that we <i>anchored</i> to you. The people who can't see you aren't worth it. The people who hurt you? They're living on borrowed time. I would tear this world apart for you; what's a few murders when the people who die don't deserve to breathe?" </p>
<p>Stiles laughs, then, and turns in Peter's hold, buries his face in Peter's neck, his hands clenched tight around Peter's shirt. "I just want to be normal," he admits, whispering the words into Peter's skin. "I just want to be -- I don't want to be <i>this</i>. I would give <i>anything</i> to've been born something other than this <i>fucking</i> Spark."</p>
<p>The thought coalesces in Peter's mind, slow but like something unstoppable. Stiles doesn't want to leave Beacon Hills. He doesn't want to rule. He hates what he is. He wants to be <i>normal</i>. </p>
<p>"It's not just a law, is it," he says, stunned at what he's just now realising. "You've bound your Spark even beyond your own code. How -- everything you've shown me, everything I've seen, it's not -- you're still <i>bound</i>?" </p>
<p>"You want me to be what I am," Stiles says. "And I'm trying, I swear I am, Peter, I don't want to lie to you, but I can't just -- I still have to be the Stiles that everyone else knows sometimes: at school, around humans, at the fucking grocery store. And if I have to be, y'know, human for them, it's just --"</p>
<p>Peter cuts him off. "Be human for them if you must," he says, "but not for us. We want <i>you</i>." </p>
<p>Stiles fights his way out of Peter's hold, stalks a couple steps away and takes a few deep breaths before spinning around to face Peter with Spark-white eyes and his arms folded across his chest. "The most real I've ever been in front of you," he says, the words cutting because they're spoken with such a lack of emotion, "I ended up terrifying you. You could've died, Peter. And that's with the majority of the Spark trapped in a code that places more emphasis on the free will of others than on my own desire. That's with more than half the power of the Spark locked up behind shields I've only ever let go of twice. The full force of my Spark kills <i>fae</i>, Peter, just by <i>existing</i>. I once wiped out demons without even looking at them -- not exorcised or banished, <i>obliterated</i>. The Spark has too much power to be let loose and if I'm going to have to keep it under lock and key to protect those around me, and hide it completely so as not to freak out the humans, then I might as well shut it down entirely." </p>
<p>"Shutting down is one thing," Peter says, taking a moment to turn off the stove and move the kettle to a different burner before turning back to Stiles and the otherworldly, alien picture he presents, all contained power, heat shimmering around him like sunlight on asphalt, his eyes glowing the glacial cold white of a nuclear winter, his full Spark-scent so thick in the air that Peter almost can't breathe around it, "but denial is something completely different, and that's what you're doing. Acting human at the grocery store, fine, I get that, but you haven't kept the glow out around us. You haven't kept your eyes out. You've shown more emotion than you ever professed to feeling. How can you not expect me to consider all of that a lie, knowing what I know of you?"</p>
<p>"It's not a lie," Stiles snaps. </p>
<p>Peter's eyes go red and he doesn't bother trying to force the wolf back under control. "Hazy and disconnected, you said. Sociopath, you said. I see you curled up in bed with my nephew and my daughter and I'm supposed to assume that's not a lie?" </p>
<p>Stiles bares his teeth, snarls out, "I'm <i>bonded</i>, Peter, to you <i>and</i> to the pack. You think I'd lie to my bonded? That you and yours don't affect me, that I'd <i>claim you</i> and then dishonour that by <i>faking</i>? You're mine, and your pack is mine, and I have chosen to cultivate these relationships and fucking <i>love</i> you even when all the Spark inside of me screams out not to." </p>
<p>"If you're fighting against your instincts to love us," Peter says, beta shift coming over in a flood of fury, voice echoing with wrathful ice, "then <i>why bother</i>."</p>
<p>"Because I want to," Stiles says. "It's my choice." </p>
<p>Peter sighs, a sudden rush of exhaustion pulling all the fight out of him. Desire. Free will. Choice. Of course. That's what it always comes down to with Stiles, isn't it. "Just fucking be yourself, Stiles," he says, tired. "That's all we want." </p>
<p>The light around Stiles explodes outwards in an almost physical sense. Peter feels the heat go flying past him, burning his skin, and just after he's recovered from that, streams of sun rays slide across his skin and leave long, deep, slender cuts along his face, his arms, his chest. The pain of it hits him only moments later, after blood's already started trickling out of the wounds, his healing struggling to work when there are so many dangerous lacerations to deal with.</p>
<p>"Is this what you want," Stiles hisses. His skin glows with heat and his pyjamas start to disintegrate in small, wisping sections, burning down to ash, air filling with the scent of carbon and ozone. At the same time, something like a corona of fire appears around Stiles' head, flames so intense that they dance around blue centres, and they flare up even hotter as those wings of light Peter saw in the community centre come back, mantling when Stiles says, "You mated a <i>monster</i>, Peter Hale; you really want to be reminded of that every time you look at me?" </p>
<p>Peter stares as his eyes water endlessly, tears carving out channels down his cheeks as they steam dry in the sunlight of Stiles' spark. Every time he blinks, he sees blinding shadows; his skin feels like it's peeling away from his bones as the luminescence grows teeth and claws and blades, splitting him to ribbons. The air around him <i>sings</i>, some hymn normally underpinning existence now loud enough to rupture Peter's eardrums, overtake the rhythm of his heart and lungs and force them into following a different beat. </p>
<p>Even so, facing all of this, using every ounce of strength he possesses, Peter's barely able to keep to his feet as he replies, simply, helplessly, "Yes." </p>
<p>For a split-second -- or an eternity, maybe -- Peter splits apart, dissolving into base atoms in the face of the Spark's might -- but then it's all gone. Stiles is back to passing for human, Peter's still standing there, albeit shakily, on weak knees. The night around them is dark and quiet. </p>
<p>"We're not good people, Stiles," Peter finally says. "But that doesn't mean you're a monster -- and even if you are, you're <i>my</i> monster. Do you -- do you not want me to call you that? I can stop."</p>
<p>"Don't stop," Stiles says. He looks down, looks away, lets loose a little broken laugh. "It reminds me -- it reminds me that even if I am, y'know, <i>this</i>, that -- you'll think it's stupid, but --."</p>
<p>Peter narrows his eyes in thought, trying to figure out what Stiles means, what he wants to say but doesn't want to admit to. He has no clue. "Let me be the judge of whether or not I think it sounds stupid," he says, gently. </p>
<p>Stiles flicks his eyes to Peter, looks away. One hand goes up to cross his chest and hold his other arm; his scent flickers through so many things so fast that Peter has no chance of deciphering any one of them, much less all of them. Even the bond is still ringing with echoes from Stiles' show of power, taking its time to settle. </p>
<p>"You call me monster but you love me," Stiles says. "I can feel it, y'know, through the bond. I hear it in your heartbeat. It makes me -- it reminds me that I'm -- that even though I'm this, I'm still --," and he snorts, shifts again to rub at his nose, to hold himself a little more protectively, to curl in on himself as he says, barely louder than a whisper, "I'm still worth something. Still worth loving. You're the first person who -- my mom did, but it doesn't feel like it, sometimes, when I remember her hands on my head, pushing me under the --. I mean, I don't <i>want</i> to be a monster. I want to be -- normal. Good. Human. I want to worry about human things and werewolf things and whether or not it matters what kind of grades I get on my finals. I don't want to have to worry about turning every alliance meeting into a battle just because I'm there or if I'll need to decimate the Winterlands again to protect my best friend or if losing my temper might kill my mate. But even with all that, you still want <i>me</i> and I just -- I'm not -- I don't <i>understand</i>, Peter," Stiles says, looking back up at Peter, flush high on his cheeks from holding back tears. "Why couldn't I be normal? Why did I have to be <i>this</i>?" </p>
<p>At that, Peter moves. He crosses the distance between them and gathers Stiles up in his arms, picking him in a bridal carry and going into the living room. Peter sits down on the couch, Stiles in his lap, and doesn't let go. </p>
<p>"I don't know," Peter says. "I don't like seeing you so unhappy. But I do know that no one else could handle it with the same grace and unfailing self-control that you have. If it had been me facing Kristian, I would've ripped his throat out. I wanted to. Derek did, too. And all you did was flare a little light and attempt to hammer some truths into a skull that must be pretty damn thick if he thinks picking a fight with you in front of your packmates is a good idea." He strokes his thumb back and forth over Stiles' thigh, finally says, quietly, "I <i>do</i> love you, Spark and all. And I know you hate it, but -- I think we're all pretty lucky it was you and not someone else."</p>
<p>Stiles breathes in, breathes out, deep, over and over again. His heart rate steadies and settles as he does so, the light around him coming back but so hesitantly, so dimly, that Peter could almost convince himself he's imagining it if it isn't for the way that he can feel, somehow, the instant Stiles' eyes go Spark-white. </p>
<p>"I wouldn't wish this on anyone," Stiles says. "It's too much. It's -- I <i>have</i> to keep it bound. You understand that, right? But -- I'll try to do better." </p>
<p>Peter rubs his nose in Stiles' hair. "I know I said before that I wanted to know the truth of you," he says, slowly and carefully choosing his words. "I still do. But I'd rather you be happy than anything else and if you keeping the Spark bound as tight as you can is what makes you happy, I'll learn to accept that. But -- be honest, Stiles. Does that make you happy?" </p>
<p>Stiles leans into Peter, head tilted to look down at his hands, where he's picking at his fingernails. "Sometimes," he admits. "Happiness is -- abstract. Sometimes I like to try and -- to pretend that I'm -- that I'm not this. But sometimes it hurts to keep it hidden. Sometimes I --." </p>
<p>He trails off. Peter waits, finally says, when it seems like Stiles isn't going to finish his thought, "Sometimes you -- what?" </p>
<p>"Sometimes I wish I could find a place to let it out," Stiles says, wistful. "Let it breathe. Let <i>me</i> breathe. Let it free for a while, to -- to just let <i>go</i>." </p>
<p>Peter's heart breaks to hear Stiles' voice filled with such childlike yearning. He'd offer Stiles an answer if he could, would provide a solution if one existed, but Stiles is bound by both choice and code and <i>still</i> has enough power to kill Peter just by being in the same space. Stiles mentioned destroying the Winterlands, killing demons -- if his Spark let loose can do that, nowhere on earth would be safe enough to give the Spark the freedom to express itself. </p>
<p>"No other dimensions could take it?" Peter asks. </p>
<p>"I haven't tried," Stiles says, "but Solé's demons don't think so. One of her eldest suggested I burn out as much of it as I can and then go into the Shadowlands but -- no." </p>
<p>The vehemence behind that last word takes Peter off-guard but he's not willing to question it <i>or</i> Stiles' answer. This is something Stiles has obviously thought a great deal about, has even gone so far as to consult with demons; Peter prides himself on his intelligence but he's got nothing new to offer in the face of a demon's knowledge. </p>
<p>"All right, then," he says, and puts one hand over Stiles'. "Until we can figure out how to achieve that goal, let me ask: what could we do, right now, to make you happy?"</p>
<p>Stiles doesn't say anything for a long time. Peter waits, listens as Stiles' breathes, as the bond between them floods over with fondness and adoration, as Stiles' scent takes on the overtones of contemplation. "I want to take a couple classes this summer and graduate early," Stiles says. "Or maybe homeschooling next year if I can't be done with it. I just -- I don't want to go back to school. There are too many people there who expect -- and I can't. I just can't. The less time I spend pretending, the more I want -- I can't do it." </p>
<p>"We can make that happen," he says. Peter thinks back to Monday -- feels like an eternity ago but was only the day before yesterday; what the hell -- and the way Stiles mentioned getting his GED, the way he smelled of nothing so much as <i>relief</i> being in the loft, with pack, with Peter. Stiles, so carefully testing the boundaries of what Peter's willing to do. He feels himself filled with an abundance of affection, leans down and nuzzles Stiles' hair. "What else?" </p>
<p>"I want -- a house. Away from people and close to the preserve. Someplace that's just for the pack, somewhere -- safe," Stiles adds, quietly. "I want a break from the politics. Six months without meeting anyone new or having to deal with people who despise me or fighting for our lives. I know I'm your emissary and I don't want to abandon my responsibilities but I'm tired of the extremes, people who are either too Spark-struck to look me in the eyes or who loathe me just because of what I am without taking the time to get to know me and hate me because of who I am." </p>
<p>This isn't exactly how Peter imagined it -- he's not sure <i>how</i> he imagined it although he knows it wasn't like this -- but he says, "Marry me." Stiles stiffens in shock and finally looks at him, lips parted, eyes wide. "Live with me until the house gets built, finish up school, stay with me where no one else has a claim on you. Be <i>my</i> monster. And let me be yours to keep everyone else away. What d'you say?" </p>
<p>"You mean that?" Stiles asks. "You -- we're already mated. We don't need to get married." </p>
<p>"It'll keep the humans happy," Peter says, "so no one can split us apart. It'll work just as well as an emancipation but it'll give me the excuse to put a ring on your finger. Humans don't recognise a mate-bite when they see one but they know what a ring means, and that'll make the wolf happy. Say yes, Stiles. Please." </p>
<p>Stiles searches his eyes, the shock giving way to something like a happiness too tentative to be trusted in wholeheartedly. "You're doing this for the legal rights," he guesses. "So dad can't take me back. So if anything ever happens, people will call you instead of him." </p>
<p>"It's a bonus," Peter admits, "but I'm doing it for us. We've done the Spark claim, the wolf bite. Let's round out the trifecta and do the human ring. I'd really," Peter says, taking Stiles' hand in his, claw running over the left ring finger at the base, back and forth, "like to claim you in the human world as well as the shifter world, cover you in every proof of possession I can. I want everyone to know that you're mine and that you chose <i>me</i>." He feels a sudden pang of self-doubt, then. He hadn't expected Stiles to instantly agree but he thought there'd be some excitement at the thought, some --</p>
<p>"Stop," Stiles says, nudging Peter's chin with his own. "I guess I was just surprised, that's all. I'm just --" and he laughs, leans back just so he can kiss Peter, hard and bruising in his enthusiasm. "Yes," Stiles says, once he's gone breathless. "<i>Yes</i>. Let's do it." </p>
<p>Peter looks at Stiles, half-expecting this to be -- not a joke, but Stiles acting for Peter's benefit. He sees Spark-white eyes, though, and the light around Stiles, while not very bright or very hot, burns <i>strong</i>. "Yes?" he asks, checking, though he can feel the smile starting to stretch his mouth. "You will?" </p>
<p>Stiles laughs, says, "Oh my god, <i>yes</i>, you idiot, I will, of <i>course</i> I will, I love you, I -- <i>oh my god</i>," he says, derailed as his eyes go wide again. "That's how you met Linda. You went to pick up a <i>marriage license</i> already?" </p>
<p>"Emancipation papers, too," Peter says, "in case you'd prefer that." </p>
<p>"But a marriage license would be better," Stiles says, "and you'd get off on introducing me as your mate and husband and emissary, wouldn't you." He's grinning and Peter's attention is caught on the picture Stiles makes, looking and smelling so happy; it takes him a moment to realise that Stiles continued on, added, "'This is Stiles Hale, alpha-mate and husband and emissary and pack monster,' I can just hear you now."</p>
<p>Peter never <i>dreamed</i> that Stiles would take his name. Apparently his shock must be ricocheting down the bond because Stiles goes still, quick. </p>
<p>"Uh," Stiles said. "I mean. I don't have to, it's just --" </p>
<p>The wolf, not Peter, snarls at that. "No take-backs," Peter says, lisping through his fangs, claws digging into Stiles' skin and making a home for themselves in Stiles' flesh. "<i>Mine</i>." </p>
<p>Stiles relaxes, just as quickly as he'd frozen up. "Yeah," he says, and leans forward to brush noses with Peter. "Yours, alpha." </p>
<p>Peter digs his claws out from where he had them buried in Stiles, skims them over Stiles' hips. He leans in, intent on biting his claim and Stiles' acceptance of it into Stiles' neck for all to see, but he bounces off of the Spark-magic humming over Stiles' skin. The wolf snarls, growls, tries again and again and again, frustrated every time, anger spiraling deeper and wider with every failed attempt. </p>
<p>Stiles puts his hands on Peter's cheeks, pushes Peter back and then holds him there. "Hold on," he says. "I don't know if I can -- this might hurt." </p>
<p>The glow coming out of Stiles doubles in strength, then doubles again, growing brighter and brighter every second until Peter has to close his eyes. Even then, he can still see the light through his eyelids, wants to flinch but can't, held immobile by Stiles' touch. Stiles takes his hands away and Peter whines, a low, lupine noise of desperation; he hears something and then cloth goes over his eyes -- the hoodie, he realises, that Malia dropped off earlier, smelling of her and Stiles. It does a great deal to block out the light at first but then the glare is back, growing more and more powerful. Peter hears dishes rattling in the cabinets, hears books shaking on the shelves, hears as one of the flowerpots goes tumbling and cracks open on the floor. </p>
<p>Then, Stiles curves one hand around the back of Peter's head and tugs, pushing Peter's face right into Stiles' neck. "The Spark has to be out to do this; I'm sorry I didn't realise before, but -- go ahead, wolf." </p>
<p>Peter breathes deep, greedily inhaling the scent, licking the skin over Stiles' rabbit-fast pulse. The magic zings, surrounding Peter with the promise of death, but Peter trusts Stiles, trusts his control, trusts his words -- trusts his love. He bares his fangs, growls, and <i>bites</i>. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Derek comes down the stairs in the morning, one hand half over his eyes. "You decent?" he calls out. "Mal's in the shower; I don't want her coming down and getting an eyeful of -- what the <i>fuck</i>." </p>
<p>Peter untangles himself from Stiles just enough to lean up on one elbow. "We're decent," he says. "I'll clean up later." </p>
<p>He glances around at the books scattered on the floor, the glass from shattered light bulbs, the broken flower pots and dishes in the kitchen, the coffee table laying on its side, him and Stiles lying on the floor in the clear epicentre of an earthquake of minor destruction. It looked awful last night but now, in the light of day, Peter winces. It's going to take hours to clean up. </p>
<p>Stiles, next to him, sits up and tucks the quilt a little tighter around their hips, both of them naked beneath it. He yawns, scratches at his throat and the bite mark left there, already scarred in deep. Peter expects Derek to ask about it but he doesn't, just sighs and says, "The coffee pot better be in one piece," as he carefully picks his way across the room to the kitchen. </p>
<p>Peter leans over, rubs his nose against Stiles' cheek, feeling the threat of the Spark back in its place around Stiles' throat. "He didn't say anything," Peter murmurs. </p>
<p>"Can't see it," Stiles admits. "Only you. But seriously, three has to be enough. Any bites after this are getting healed clean."</p>
<p>"Fair," Peter agrees. He kisses Stiles, then reaches for their clothes, in pieces around them, hoping to find something that either he or Stiles can wear long enough to go upstairs and retrieve clothes. All he comes up with is Stiles' hoodie. </p>
<p>Stiles takes it out of his hands and stands up, tying the hoodie around his waist as he does so. "I'll go and get cleaned up," he says, nose wrinkling as he adds, "Don't wanna be late for school." He ruffles Peter's hair and dances out of the way of Peter's claws when Peter swipes at him, giving him a smile as he goes up the steps. </p>
<p>Peter gets up, then, uses the couch to help himself, and wraps the quilt around his waist a couple times, holding the end of it as he makes his way to the kitchen. </p>
<p>"Should I be worried that I didn't hear whatever happened last night?" Derek asks, turning to look at Peter, eyes scanning Peter's body and eyebrows lifting with every bruise and scratch he notices. "Or that you're not healing?" </p>
<p>"I'd think you should be relieved more than anything else," Peter admits. "I don't know if it's Sparks in general or just Stiles, but my mate has sharp nails to go along with his sharp tongue. I -- tangled with both last night." </p>
<p>Derek's nostrils flare as he lifts his head slightly, gaze drifting as he focuses more on what his nose is telling him. "Stiles smells happy this morning," he says, cautious. "Is that because of -- does he --." </p>
<p>Peter grins, then laughs, a lighter, happier sound than he ever thought himself capable of making. "I asked him to marry me. He said yes." </p>
<p>There's a screech upstairs and a moment later Peter hears the bathroom door get flung open. "You said <i>yes</i>?" Malia yells. </p>
<p>"I already have his teeth, Mal," Stiles says. Peter can hear the smile in his words but, more than that, louder and more potent, he breathes in the pure satisfaction of Stiles' scent as it winds its way down the stairs, filling the entire townhouse. "Why wouldn't I want the ring, too? Now get back in the shower and finish up, okay? I need to get clean, too." </p>
<p>"Ugh, <i>fine</i>," Malia says, slamming the door. She keeps muttering under her breath, words mixing with the noise of the water. </p>
<p>Stiles comes bouncing down the stairs a moment later, thankfully wearing clothes. They're Peter's pyjamas, though, which doesn't help Peter's self-restraint. All he wants is to throw Stiles over his shoulder and take him upstairs, keep him in bed all day, feed him by hand, fuck whenever they feel like it. Stiles' grin turns wistful, as if he can hear the tenor of Peter's thoughts. </p>
<p>"Even if I stayed, we'd have to clean first," Stiles tells him, coming over to him and pressing a kiss to Peter's cheek, flashing a smile at Derek in greeting. "And I've missed too much school already. Don't have any plans for the weekend, though." </p>
<p>"Now you do," Peter says, half tease and half growled promise. Stiles beams. "What'd you come down here for?" </p>
<p>Stiles blinks, then says, "Oh, right! Show me the marriage license. We need to get that taken care of as soon as possible. I've been gone four days; no doubt dad's gonna start having second thoughts soon." </p>
<p>Peter bares his teeth and reluctantly moves away from Stiles. The envelope that Linda gave him is in his briefcase, which Peter retrieves from its spot near the door and takes back to the kitchen. He sets it down on the counter, opens it and takes out the envelope. Peter slides the papers out, separates the application for a marriage license, which he gives to Stiles, from the emancipation application, which Peter rips up with more than a little glee. He watches, then, as Stiles runs his finger down the edge of the paper that the sheriff will need to sign to give parental approval. The paper glimmers, a viscous, oil-slick rainbow light that flickers as it slides down from top to bottom. Stiles narrows his eyes, studies it, then nods. </p>
<p>He hands the papers back to Peter, says, "You should take this over to the station this morning. Parrish is scheduled for desk duty; grab him one of the bakery's blackberry Dutch babies and a white hot chocolate on your way over and he'll do anything you want." Stiles' eyes go wide, just for a second, before he gives Peter a thoughtful look. "You should see if you like him for the pack. Not right away, before everything else is settled, but eventually." </p>
<p>"Stiles, I'm done!" Malia calls out from upstairs, footsteps heading into the bedroom. </p>
<p>"He's not human?" Peter asks Stiles, even as Stiles makes a move to go upstairs. He remembers Stiles talking about Parrish before -- the person that he and Joel Abelman think would make a good sheriff. If Parrish isn't human, and is willing to ally with the pack, perhaps even join it, then that gives them an insider in local law enforcement, which is always useful. It does make Peter wonder, though, if Joel knows about the supernatural. He doesn't <i>think</i> Joel is anything other than pure human -- Peter certainly never smelled anything on him that would make him think otherwise. If he is, though, that -- might prove useful in and of itself. </p>
<p>Stiles gives Peter a slight smile, edged with something approaching a cool calculation that speaks to the violence inherent in the wolf. Peter doesn't know if it's because of the question he asked Stiles or because Stiles is following the train of Peter's thought; either way, his smile makes Peter grin in return. "He's a good kid," Stiles says, tapping his fingers on the counter. "And a hellhound, although I'm pretty sure he doesn't know that yet." </p>
<p>Stiles goes, leaves Peter and Derek exchanging a look, Derek of tired exasperation and Peter of appreciative contemplation. </p>
<p>"How did I not know the world was this <i>big</i>?" Derek asks, more to himself than to Peter. </p>
<p>Peter still takes it upon himself to answer. "You grew up very sheltered," he says, as he slides the paperwork back in its envelope and goes to the fridge to come up with some sort of snack for Malia and Stiles' breakfast. "Your mother didn't want you involved. But you never came across anything not strictly human in New York?" </p>
<p>Cities have long been a refuge for shifters and magic users. The sheer crush of people makes everyone behave a little more, no one willing to bring humans down on their world, and connections are easier to make, feuds are easier to put aside, any enemy can be ignored with impunity. Not every city is held by a group like the Consilium or something like the Triple Alliance, but many of them are; they make sure things run smoothly. Laura, as an alpha, should have introduced herself and Derek to whoever the ruling coalition was; if she didn't, she might have offended them enough that the whole city was instructed to shun her and Derek. </p>
<p>Peter thinks, knowing what he does of Laura, of Talia, that perhaps that would have been for the best. </p>
<p>"No one I was sure of," Derek says, clearly thinking back. "A few people who smelled of shifter, every once in a while, in the park or the subway. A handful who had the same -- other-ness to their scent that Stiles and Lydia and Kristian have." Peter asks Derek to explain that, says that there's nothing in their scents that all three of them share, and Derek shrugs. "It's nothing I could describe," he says. "Just -- something other. Something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I felt it with Danny, too, before the pack bond. Amanda has a little of it, not as much as Kristian, but enough to notice. There are a couple others in town." </p>
<p>Well. That answers that question.</p>
<p>"Huh." It's good to know that Derek's sense of smell can pick out those subtle undertones when Peter can't; even beyond them being family, it's a skill that will serve Derek well as Peter's second. "Tell me if there's anyone else whose scent hits you like that?" Derek nods, turns his attention back to the coffee, which is almost done brewing. Peter wraps up food for his two packmates heading off to school, stuffs half the food in Stiles' backpack as a surprise for later, and clears them a path to the front door, kicking aside shards of shattered glass and the remnants of his hall table, now nothing more than a pile of kindling. </p>
<p>By the time he's done, Stiles and Malia are walking down the stairs, Malia yawning and Stiles doing something on his phone. </p>
<p>"Breakfast on the counter," Peter says. Malia leans in, brushes her cheek against Peter's, and rumbles happily when she sees the bacon sandwich Peter put together for her. </p>
<p>Stiles gets his shoes on, takes the bagel smeared with hummus and filled with sliced cucumbers, tomatoes, and carrots that Malia hands him, and swings his backpack onto one shoulder. "We should go see Solé tonight," he suggests, "if you're up to it. I can text her and let her know we'll be heading down to the Valley?" </p>
<p>Peter wants nothing less than to see her but he thinks back to last night -- this morning, whichever it was, and Stiles' mention of obliterating demons. If nothing else, Stiles will make sure nothing happens to him, will keep the mage in line and make sure they both get out of there in one piece. He sighs, says, "If you'd like." Stiles gives him a half-smile, turns to go, but Peter reels Stiles back in, sets his hands on Stiles' hips and leans in, gives him a kiss. "You've got this," he tells Stiles. "You can do it. Okay? Two more days until the weekend, then only a couple weeks before summer break. Once we get the license processed, we'll go to the school and see what our options are." </p>
<p>"Deal," Stiles says. He rubs his nose against Peter's, murmurs, "Sorry about the mess. I feel guilty leaving you to clean it up when I was --" </p>
<p>"It was worth it," Peter says, cutting Stiles off. "But we'll try and figure out something for the pack house. Glue, maybe." </p>
<p>Stiles laughs as he pulls away, reluctance screaming in his movements as he lingers, drawing one hand down Peter's arm, swiping his fingertips over Peter's knuckles. "I'll let you know what Solé says," he promises, and then Malia's grabbing Stiles' hand and dragging him around the mess by the door, then outside, telling him that they're going to be late and that she really is going to bite someone's throat out this time if she gets saddled with detention <i>again</i>.</p>
<p>Peter perches on the edge of the couch, listening as they get into the rental vehicle -- a gleaming black SUV that Stiles had oohed and ahhed at yesterday on the way to the community centre -- and drive off. He gives Derek a tired smile, then, and doesn't feel at all offended when Derek says, "You look like you could do with a couple more hours of sleep." </p>
<p>"Too much to do," Peter says. "I'll sleep later. Hopefully we don't stay too late at Mage Medina's." He stands up, stretches, back and neck cracking, and surveys the mess of the townhouse. "It sounds like I need to go to the bakery before the sheriff's station. I'll pick up some snacks for the rest of our pack while I'm there. I should probably also buy some new flower pots." He looks around again, adds, "Maybe some more garbage bags, too. Then -- lunch? You have anything you need to get done?"</p>
<p>Derek shakes his head. "I've got most of the parts I need ordered so I'm just waiting for them to come in. Nothing else on the agenda. You want company?" </p>
<p>Peter gives his nephew a smile, says, "Yeah. That'd be nice." </p>
<p>Derek returns the smile and offers Peter a cup of coffee. "Go and shower," he says. "You stink." </p>
<p>Peter flips Derek off but takes the coffee and does as directed. Derek's not exactly wrong about the smell, after all.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Got a call from Rania last night," Amanda says, as Peter approaches the counter of the Drip House. "Said you owe her for running out on her while she was in the bathroom." </p>
<p>Peter winces, says, "Ah. Yes. Well." </p>
<p>Amanda laughs, waves him off. "Not my concern," she says, picking up the order pad and giving Peter an expectant look. "What can I get you?" </p>
<p>"My usual," Peter says, "and Derek said he'd like to try one of the goat cheese and tomato tarts with a hazelnut mocha. Fill up a couple boxes with whatever you'd like; I'll keep those at the house for Stiles and whoever he decides to bring around the next couple days. Oh, and I need a blackberry Dutch baby and a white hot chocolate." </p>
<p>Amanda pauses at that, looks up at him. "That's not your order. That's Jordan's order. Why are you getting Jordan something? I didn't think you two knew each other." </p>
<p>Peter raises an eyebrow, impressed at Amanda's recall and suspicion both. "I need to drop something off at the sheriff's station," he says. "Stiles warned me I'd get further if I took in Deputy Parrish's favourites." </p>
<p>"Emancipation or marriage?" Amanda asks, eyes wide as a smile starts to cross her lips. "We have book club tonight; I need something to tell the others. Come on, Peter, which is it?" </p>
<p>"You didn't hear it from me," Peter says, leaning in a little, "but I'm going to be buying someone a ring." </p>
<p>Amanda squeals, comes out from behind the counter and wraps Peter up in a hug. "Oh my <i>god</i>," she says, practically screaming in Peter's ear. "That's -- I'm so happy for you!"</p>
<p>Peter winces at the noise but hugs Amanda back. He can't help grinning, either. Marriage isn't much in the face of a mate-bite but knowing that Stiles is willing to accept every kind of claim Peter can lay on him will always make Peter feel relieved and happy and proud. </p>
<p>"You're gonna invite us, right?" Amanda asks, squeezing Peter again before going back behind the counter and taking out a few pastry boxes, talking as she unfolds and forms them. "I mean, whether it's at the courthouse or you have something somewhere else, you better invite us, Peter, or you running out on Rania last night will be <i>nothing</i> in the face of our retribution. Oooh, where are you going for your honeymoon?" </p>
<p>Peter blinks at the unexpected question, admits, "I haven't thought that far ahead yet. Stiles hasn't said anything about a honeymoon." </p>
<p>"Well, he wouldn't, would he?" The smile drops from Amanda's face, something a little sad entering her expression. "He's probably not expecting anything. He never does." She sighs, checks the order she scribbled out, and says, "Gimme five and I'll have this ready for you." </p>
<p>Peter nods, heads for the nearest table and sits down, pulls out his phone. <i>Amanda wants the book club at our vows</i>, he texts Stiles. <i>I'm too afraid to say no. Also, honeymoon?</i></p>
<p>He's not expecting an instant reply, so Peter opens Twitter to browse through the eclectic collection of people he follows -- news sites, a few pundits, a couple writers that he likes, some of his old supernatural contacts that he's been slowly rebuilding his rapport with -- but Stiles texts back about thirty seconds later, makes him jump a little when the phone vibrates in his hands. </p>
<p><i>We can ask Lydia for help planning, she loves planning parties. Also, y/y honeymoon. I've been working on An Idea. Tell you later.</i> A moment later, one more text comes through: <i>Also also, trip to the Valley is on. Deep breath, alpha.</i></p>
<p>Peter chuckles, shakes his head and texts back, <i>Ask Lydia and don't tell me your idea until after our meeting tonight. That may help me make it through. Now pay attention to school</i>.</p>
<p>A string of emojis comes back, and Peter shakes his head, smiling, and reopens Twitter. He DMs one of the shifters on the East Coast he knew before the fire -- she was a consul then but rose to alpha during Peter's coma. Peter's been trying to tentatively dance around the subject of an alliance with her and her pack; she's got a treaty worked out with one of the larger hunter families on that side of the country and having a connection to them might be enough to keep the Calaveras in line if they try moving their sphere of influence north of Fresno despite the presence of a Macfie and the very clear signs that they're not welcome. </p>
<p>With that done, and after a few more minutes of aimless scrolling, Amanda calls his name. He gets up, heads for the counter, and carefully balances three pastry boxes in his arms before picking up the drink carrier. </p>
<p>"Congrats," Amanda tells him again. </p>
<p>Peter nods, says, "Thank you," around a wide smile, and heads out. </p>
<p>Derek rolls down his window when he sees Peter coming and takes two of the boxes when Peter stands next to the passenger door. Derek sets them down by his feet, takes the rest of it, then, and asks, "Think there's enough here?" </p>
<p>"Our pack is full of bottomless stomachs," Peter points out. Derek laughs, agrees with him, and rolls up the window as Peter makes his way around the car. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Even though Home Depot's on the way to the sheriff's station, Peter bypasses the store for now. He's not sure how Deputy Parrish would take getting unexpected free -- but cold -- food; judging by the few things Stiles has said, Peter doesn't think Parrish would hold it against him, but still. Derek doesn't say anything though he does raise an eyebrow when they drive past the turn-in to Home Depot without slowing down. </p>
<p>"You've been texting someone all morning," Peter says. "Everything all right?" </p>
<p>"Replying to emails about the parts for Stiles' Jeep, mostly, and setting up tracking alerts for the pieces that've already shipped," Derek says, though he does flush, just a little, as he adds, "And Lydia's bored, so she's been texting." The scent coming off of Derek speaks to nothing so much as flabbergasted pleasure. </p>
<p>Peter wants to press but feels that it won't get him very far if he does, so he just asks, "Are she and Stiles in the same class right now? I texted him while I was waiting for Amanda to make the drinks and he answered more quickly than I'd expected." </p>
<p>Derek hums, absently, looking down at his phone. "History," he says. "They're watching a movie today and I guess Mr. Yukimura doesn't care how closely people are paying attention. Lydia went on an 8-text rant about it." </p>
<p>That's right, isn't it -- Kira's father teaches their history class. Peter's never really believed that the Yukimuras moving to Beacon Hills just when the nogitsune was released was in any way coincidental; the timing is much too convenient. He's just not sure whether Noshiko came back because she <i>knew</i> something had happened or because she <i>suspected</i> something had happened or was about to happen. One of those options is a lot more palatable than the other, which, despite Malia's pleas to invite Kira to join the pack, might have Peter banishing Noshiko from his territory. Oh, she might just move closer to Satomi, out of Beacon Hills proper, and from what Peter remembers, the school district doesn't require their teachers to live within the city limits, just the county, but the reasons behind the banishment would spread far and wide, Peter's sure of it.</p>
<p>He'll have to ask Noshiko when he goes to speak with her and her husband. Kira, he thinks, will be better handled if he talks to her first, in a more neutral environment -- perhaps with Malia at his side. There's still so much that Kira needs to know about their world; hopefully she'll be willing to listen to their pack instead of clinging to Scott's. There is what Malia said about Scott and Allison, though, and how fast Kira's relationship with Scott started and progressed. Depending on what Kira's seen, she might be eager to have an excuse to break things off with that miserable excuse of an alpha. </p>
<p>"You're plotting again," Derek says. He sounds, somehow, both tired at the idea and interested in what Peter's thinking about. </p>
<p>"Kira," Peter says, "and her parents. You were upstairs with Stiles so I don't know if you heard, but Lydia doesn't want me to invite Noshiko to join the pack." </p>
<p>Derek gives Peter a look, asks, "Would Noshiko want to? She hated the nogitsune. If she gets even the slightest hint that Stiles was closer to the fox than he's let on, she'd probably count herself out before we even have the chance to ask." </p>
<p>Peter turns left when there's a break in the traffic, says, "Something I'd already been thinking. I have a feeling we'd all be better off if she left town, actually, but Malia seems fond of Kira and having a kitsune in our pack won't hurt our reputation." </p>
<p>"Alpha Ito has history with Noshiko," Derek says. "It's possible that they already share a bond of some sort, even if it's just one of friendship. We could ask for her opinion when we take over the treaty." </p>
<p>"Inviting yourself along?" Peter asks, though he's pleased by Derek's assumption. </p>
<p>Derek shrugs, shifts in the seat. "I'm not letting you go on another pack's territory by yourself, treaty or not," Derek says. "I'd say Stiles would be the better choice to send along since he has the firepower but with the way the Ito emissary behaved last night -- yeah, not happening." </p>
<p>Peter pulls into the parking lot out front of the sheriff's station, puts the car in park and leaves it idling. "In the old stories, Sparks grow up around shifters. Wolves, mostly, but sometimes coyotes, sometimes foxes, very occasionally cats. I asked Stiles why on the trip down to New Orleans; he said that before Sparks ignite, magic users are driven to kill Sparks, to eliminate the threat they pose, and they're safest around shifters. I suppose I thought that would change after they ignite, that most magic users, even if they didn't care for the Sparks, would at least respect them." He snorts, says, quietly, "My mistake for assuming. The two magic users we met while we were down south were friends of his and the shifters were the ones who hated him. I just -- didn't question it then. I should have." </p>
<p>"Is it jealousy?" Derek asks, after he's taken in what Peter said. "Or -- some instinctive reaction to the Spark? If it's jealousy, we can work with that, but if it's an instinct, then -- courting a Spark just to have access to their power wouldn't be worth it, would it, not if it causes so many other problems."</p>
<p>"Self-defense, of a kind," Peter says, intrigued at the possibility that Derek's just raised. He'd been prepared to argue with Derek, even punish him, for <i>daring</i> to suggest that they're using Stiles or keeping him around just for the strength of his magic, but it would make sense to think that a Spark would have to be wanted, <i>desired</i>, and desperately at that, when the political issues caused by having one around would be far too many to number. "Only those who really want a Spark would be willing to put up with the problems that pack-bonding with one would cause, and then the Spark would know that they're wanted for <i>them</i>, not for their magic. That's a good question. Hm. I wonder if Stiles knows. He did say that most Sparks don't end up as emissaries; I wonder if this is related." </p>
<p>Derek takes one of the pastry boxes and one of the drinks, shoves them at Peter. "Go and deliver your bribe before someone comes out to check on us. We can ask Stiles later." </p>
<p>Peter rolls his eyes but takes what Derek's pressing at him after reaching back and grabbing the envelope. "Don't let me forget," he tells Derek. "There's so much happening so fast that I feel like I've been letting things slide." </p>
<p>"We can make a list while we're cleaning up the house," Derek says. "Actually, I'll start one while I'm waiting for you. Now stop hesitating and go find out what this apparent hellhound is like." </p>
<p>Peter gets out of the car laughing, and he's still smiling a little when he walks into the sheriff's station with the envelope tucked under his arm, carrying a take-out box with Deputy Parrish's pastry in one hand, the white hot chocolate in the other. The man behind the counter gives Peter a smile that doesn't reach his eyes and says, "Hi, there. How can I help you?" </p>
<p>"Deputy Parrish?" Peter asks. </p>
<p>The man -- Parrish, apparently -- nods, asks, "Do I know you?" </p>
<p>He looks young but there's a hardness in his gaze and the set of his jaw that speaks to having lived through things that would tear apart other men. His scent's not really anything special apart from the hint of fire and ash underlying the curiosity and slight defensiveness; if Stiles hadn't told Peter that Parrish is something other than human, Peter doesn't think he would've guessed. He wonders if Parrish would set off Derek's senses. </p>
<p>Peter sets the food and drink on the counter, pushes the envelope over as well. "No," he says, "but I know Stiles and he knows you. I need to get the papers inside that envelope signed by the sheriff and forwarded on to Linda, in the records department at the county courthouse. Stiles said you could be bribed with take-out from the Drip House." </p>
<p>Parrish's expression turns fond at the mention of Stiles though his eyes narrow a moment later. "You must be the man that came in here on Sunday night with Stiles." </p>
<p>Peter raises an eyebrow in question at how Parrish knows about that. Peter knows that gossip runs rampant through most workplaces but he hadn't thought that would extend to a place like the sheriff's station. Of course, he's relatively sure everyone here -- apart from the sheriff -- is fond of Stiles, even the new staff hired after the kanima's attack and the nogitsune's attempt to level the place to the ground. Someone like Peter coming in with Stiles must be good gossip to share around. </p>
<p>"Becca told me," Parrish admits, flushing a little. "Said the sheriff -- uh. Wasn't exactly happy after you and Stiles left." </p>
<p>After a moment's debate, Peter says, "I've never much been a fan of the sheriff's mood swings. I suppose that's what being an alcoholic does to a man, though." </p>
<p>Parrish doesn't say anything in response to that, just holds Peter's gaze. Peter could have told him that the sheriff kicked Stiles out and hasn't bothered to get in touch with his son since, that Stiles is far too lenient towards a man who doesn't deserve it, could have commented on any number of the sheriff's failings, but this gives him the chance to see both how much Parrish's hellhound responds to an alpha who, apparently, has Stiles' approval and how much news has really spread around the station about what happened Sunday night. </p>
<p>Finally, Parrish reaches for the envelope, opens it and goes through the stack of papers. "A marriage license," he says, tone even, sounding nonchalant, even as his scent churns with everything from disappointment to relief to -- and this is interesting -- the barest trace of joy. "You think the sheriff will sign off on this?" </p>
<p>"Yes, I do," Peter says. </p>
<p>Parrish runs his finger down the page on top, furrows in his forehead showing up for a split-second as his gaze goes distant, hazy. "Hm. Worth a try, I guess." He stamps the top corner of each page, red ink blaring "REC'D" with the date below; Parrish initials next to each stamp. "I'll get it to the sheriff and make sure it gets over to Records if he signs." Parrish looks up, then, and asks Peter, "Stiles is okay?" </p>
<p>Peter smiles before he can stop himself; something about that goes further to settle Parrish than anything else. "Overturning my life," he admits. "But in the best ways." </p>
<p>"How long've you two been together?" Parrish asks. "He's never mentioned you before. I mean, I can kind of see why, now, but -- if you're taking advantage of him, there are a number of people who'll be more than happy to stop you."</p>
<p>It's a clumsy threat but one that Peter appreciates. He likes knowing that Stiles has people who will come to his defense, mundane and supernatural both, especially when he remembers the way Kristian sneered at Stiles last night, the way the cats behaved before Stiles tweaked their loyalties. </p>
<p>He wants to say that he and Stiles have been together, in some fashion, since the night Stiles went looking for a dead body in the woods. Parrish isn't aware of their world yet, though, wouldn't understand the concept of mating bonds and courtships, the way a wolf can decide on the basis of scent alone that someone would be a good mate or the way that Sparks claim and Stiles welcomed Peter's overtures. Instead, Peter says, "It's been a while. Long enough for me to know that Stiles deserves more affection and attention than he's been getting at home and long enough for him to start accepting both from me." </p>
<p>Parrish considers that, holds Peter's gaze, finally says, "He likes mac and cheese. The homemade kind, baked, y'know, with bread crumbs on top? He never makes it 'cause of the sheriff's cholesterol but he gets a double order every time we get food in from the diner." </p>
<p>"I'll keep that in mind," Peter says, giving Parrish a grateful nod. "The next time I piss him off, I'll make sure I'm stocked up." </p>
<p>"Tell him to give me a call sometime," Parrish says, picking up the hot chocolate and taking a sip. "And thanks for this." Peter nods again, turns to leave, and Parrish calls out, a little hesitantly, "If the sheriff signs off and you two need a witness, let me know, okay?" </p>
<p>Peter throws the deputy a smile over his shoulder, says, "Thanks," and heads for the car. When he climbs inside, he looks at the station entrance for a moment, says to Derek, "People either love him or hate him. It's like it's impossible to be neutral about Stiles. How does he even <i>do</i> that?" </p>
<p>Derek looks up from his phone. "Human instincts might not be as developed as shifter instincts, but we all have them. Stiles just -- feels like a lot. It's hard to be neutral in the face of a lot." </p>
<p>Peter makes a noise, takes a moment longer to look at the station, then does his seatbelt up and puts the car into reverse. "Home Depot, then the butcher's, then food? What're you in the mood for?" </p>
<p>"I picked burgers," Derek says, "so it's your turn. What are <i>you</i> in the mood for?" </p>
<p>Peter's instant response -- one he keeps to himself, thankfully -- is that he wants <i>Stiles</i>. Derek rolls his eyes as if he heard that, probably smelled it, so Peter just clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he thinks. "I'm not sure how long Stiles and I'll be in the Valley with the mage tonight; we might get dinner there, depending on how late it is when we leave and what kind of mood we're in. You'd be on your own at the house, but there's stuff for sandwiches and pasta and snacks if you don't want to deal with delivery. Either way, that means lunch is gonna be the big meal today, so --Ella's?" </p>
<p>Derek nods, says, "Ella's." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>When they get to Home Depot, they split up, Derek heading for the storage section and Peter for the outdoor garden centre. He picks up a few replacement flower pots and sees a couple succulents that he adds to the cart as well; Stiles always fusses and flails over pictures of succulents on Instagram and he's mentioned before that even his slightly-less-than-green thumb has never managed to kill one of them, so he has a soft spot for them. Peter goes back inside and grabs a cooler before lifting his head a little bit to track his nephew's scent. It's faint, here, so Peter traces Derek's scent across half the store before he manages to find him holding a few different bins and baskets, looking at the workbenches. </p>
<p>"If I'm tearing apart an entire engine, I want to make sure everything's as organised as possible," Derek says, when Peter comes to a stop next to him. Derek unloads everything in his arms into the cart, tilts his head this way and that looking at a worktable with a peg board attached. </p>
<p>"That's not going to fit in the trunk," Peter points out. "Why don't you look online for something you like the look of this afternoon and have it shipped to the store. We can come back with the SUV to pick it up." </p>
<p>Derek nods, and they go through a few more aisles, picking up light bulbs, a plain ceramic dish set, a new mirror, a new clock, before heading to the checkout. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>The butcher seems glad to see Peter, is even more happy when Peter signs the receipt for a <i>lot</i> of meat and confirms that he'd like to get the co-op package with additional fresh milk, cheese, eggs, and meat when it's available. </p>
<p>With all of their errands done, and lunch picked up from the soul food café on the south end of town, the two of them go back to the townhouse and the mess waiting for them. Peter might have forgotten how extensive the disarray is; he blinks when he sees it, pausing in the doorway. </p>
<p>"Oh. Huh." </p>
<p>"Yeah," Derek says, shouldering his way past Peter and heading for the kitchen, cooler in hand. "I don't know what happened last night but whatever you two did must've been intense." </p>
<p>Peter didn't even notice the lamp had tipped over onto the floor, not to mention the hairline cracks in the glass of every picture frame. Peter shakes off the stunned disbelief and follows Derek inside with their lunch. "The Spark has this thing about Stiles' neck," Peter says, dropping off the food before heading back outside with Derek to get the rest of their shopping. "My wolf got upset last night and wanted to smell our mate; Stiles had to force the Spark out to let me get -- through it?" </p>
<p>Derek smells of confusion, gives Peter a look as he picks up the last of their purchases and closes the trunk. He waits until they're both inside, picking their way around the dirt on the floor to sit at the counter and dig into lunch -- fried pork chops, collards, mashed potatoes with the skin still on, green beans fried in bacon fat -- before saying, "You make it sound like Stiles and the Spark are two different things. But he <i>is</i> the Spark, so -- I don't get it." </p>
<p>Peter chews the bite in his mouth, swallows it down and chases it with a sip of water. "The Spark's almost sentient, I think," he says. "It's not -- I mean, I don't think he can feel it like we feel the wolf, but it's tuned to Stiles' protection. Focused on self-defense." </p>
<p>"I don't know much about Sparks," Derek says, "but something about that doesn't exactly sit right and I don't know why." He pauses, takes a bite of collards, asks, "Could it be something about his law?" </p>
<p>"Possibly," Peter says. "What I know of Sparks is mostly legend and most of those are old. Stiles hasn't said much about what the Spark really is apart from that he hates being one." Peter sighs, sets down his fork, rubs his forehead. "He thinks he's a monster. He thinks that being a Spark is a curse." </p>
<p>Derek snorts. Peter looks at his nephew, one eyebrow raised and eyes flaring red. Derek tilts his head just enough to show his throat and says, "If Stiles is a monster, I hate to think what name he'd give the rest of us. You're a shifter with enough conflicting alpha sparks in you to condemn anyone else to madness; sometimes I think the only reason you didn't go insane this time around was either your bond to Stiles or the fact that you've already been crazy and know how to work around it. My bite turned someone into a kanima, there's a hellhound in town, Stiles' mentor's a demon summoner, Lydia's a <i>Morrigan</i>, for god's sake. And that's just us. What about the -- the Argents? What about darachs and alpha packs and nogitsune driven out of their minds by a vengeful kitsune and dying nemeton? If <i>Stiles</i> is a monster, seriously, what does that make the rest of us?" </p>
<p>"Lucky," Peter says. "Imagine the Spark in the hands of someone like Gerard Argent. Even Allison." </p>
<p>Derek shakes his head, doesn't say anything, the horrified scent bleeding off of him dying down little-by-little as they finish lunch. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Between Peter and Derek, the place gets cleaned up pretty quickly. There are a couple garbage bags to take out to the dumpster and a list of supplies they need to get -- photo frames, a few more dishes, a replacement for one of the bookshelves -- but the plants have been repotted and all the glass has been swept up, the furniture's been put back to rights and the new mirror's hanging on the wall in the old one's place. </p>
<p>Derek leaves to go look through the packages delivered to the loft earlier in the day and Peter's been looking at rings since he's finished typing up the treaty he and Satomi agreed on last night. By the time Stiles gets home from school, Peter's found a designer he likes and has bookmarked another couple rings to show Stiles -- but all that goes out of Peter's mind when Stiles comes stalking into the house. Stiles drops his backpack at the door and crosses the space between them so quickly that Peter barely has time to look up from the computer. He opens his mouth to ask how Stiles' day was, nose flooded with emotions that are cycling too fast for Peter to work out, but before he can, Stiles nearly shoves his face into Peter's throat, one hand clenching Peter's shirt in a fist, the other digging into Peter's thigh. </p>
<p>"That bad?" he asks, pushing away the laptop and curling one arm around Stiles' waist, baring his throat for Stiles, who promptly just pushes his face even harder against Peter's skin. </p>
<p>Peter inhales again, scents frustration and loss and some not-so-small amount of anger tunnelling deep and turning into a cold rage, pokes the bond and feels much the same coming from Stiles, along with a small amount of thankfulness. </p>
<p>Stiles' heartbeat steadies slowly, settling back into its normal hummingbird-light speed, frustration leaving his scent only to be replaced with resignation, the slightest hint of bitterness. Stiles pulls back his face only far enough to breathe, resting his cheek on Peter's shoulder. "I know you said I don't have to go back next year, but -- did you mean it?" </p>
<p>"What happened?" Peter asks, as he stands up and tugs Stiles into the living room, sits down on the couch and pulls Stiles on top of him. Stiles seems to calm much faster when they're in physical contact and as tactile and formerly touch-starved as the wolf is, Peter's not going to resist when he always wants Stiles next to him, close enough to hear his heart beat and feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. "Talk to me, Stiles. What's going on?" </p>
<p>"It's Scott," Stiles says, playing with the buttons on Peter's shirt, eyes firmly focused on his hands, not on Peter's face. "I just -- when did it go so wrong with him? I know I've never really been friends with him, not the way he feels, but -- if the way he treats me is how he thinks a friend should be treated, then -- I dunno. And Kira looks so unhappy sometimes. She <i>feels</i> unhappy. It's setting Mal off, and she's pack so that gets Lydia's hackles up and Danny tries so hard to keep everyone calm but there's no way, and no matter what I do, I'm just not -- it's --." Stiles trails off and lets his hands fall down, adds, quietly, "Lydia said something about throwing me a belated birthday party, since my birthday happened during the whole thing with the nogitsune. Scott laughed and told her that she didn't need to find an excuse to throw a party. I don't think he meant for it to sound the way it did, but -- Danny called him on it and Scott didn't understand why everyone was mad." </p>
<p>There are times Peter wonders who he'd kill first, if the sheriff and Scott were standing in front of him. </p>
<p>"I should have never bitten him," Peter says. "I think I regret that more than anything else I've ever done." </p>
<p>Stiles twists, a little, in Peter's lap, enough to look at Peter when he asks, "Why did you? I guess I always assumed it was just an alpha's need for a pack and him being there was convenient, but -- was there another reason?" </p>
<p>Peter gives Stiles a look. He knows Stiles isn't going to like his answer but he's not about to lie, not to Stiles. "He smelled like you," Peter says, simply. "I wanted you but I knew that if I had him, you'd come to me yourself." </p>
<p>"And look how well that turned out," Stiles mutters. "Came to you myself with a fucking Molotov cocktail." </p>
<p>"I never blamed you for that," Peter says. "I was insane and needed to be put down but you weren't the one who lit the thing. Our dear little Miss Argent did that, at McCall's behest."</p>
<p>Stiles lets out a deep breath. "I don't know what to do about him," he admits. "We could kill him, that would be easiest. I could take the wolf away from him and bind him from becoming one again, but I think he'd go running to the Argents to train as a hunter and it'd be a fifty-fifty shot if his asthma'd kill him before any kind of shifter had the chance. If <i>we</i> kill him, though, that would bring his father down on the town and as bad as Scott is, Agent Asshole is one hundred times worse. A dead true alpha, too, would make waves across the country. Packs might come here looking to bind the nemeton even if we make it clear that this is Hale territory." </p>
<p>Peter hums, rubs his cheek against Stiles' hair. "The easiest solution has the most potential for severe repercussions," he agrees. "But are we just supposed to let him live in our territory until he goes off to college? He doesn't even want to go too far away, does he? I heard him say something about --" </p>
<p>"-- about staying close because of his mother," Stiles breathes. He sits up, a trace of hope in his scent, something like vicious glee ricocheting in the bond between them and filling the air with the smell of pomegranate and salted toffee. He turns to Peter, then, and kisses Peter with bruising force before scrambling up and taking his phone out of his pocket as he heads for the stairs. "You're a brilliant man, Peter Hale, and I'm gonna take a shower before we head out to see Solé."</p>
<p>He's gone, then, and Peter leans his head back, stares at the ceiling as he tries to guess what idea just popped into Stiles' head. He has <i>no</i> idea.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Stiles comes down twenty minutes later, rubbing a towel over his damp hair and wearing a pair of jeans that Peter's never seen before. They're skinny jeans, a dark forest-green colour, and cling to Stiles' hips and ass and thighs in a way that makes Peter instantly jealous. He's wearing one of Peter's t-shirts, too, hanging loose around his neck and arms, sliding down one shoulder and showing off the bitemark Peter left on his throat the night before. </p>
<p>A rumble builds up in Peter's chest and he gives voice to it before he can stop himself; Stiles looks up from his phone and gives Peter a coy smile. "You like when I wear your clothes, alpha?" he asks, as if he doesn't already know the answer. </p>
<p>"I like that you like it," Peter says, voice rough. He wants nothing more than to go over and throw Stiles over his shoulder, carry him upstairs and take advantage of them having the house to themselves, wants to rip the clothes off of Stiles' body and worship his mate from head to toe, wants to bite new bruises into his mate's pale skin and fuck screams out of Stiles' throat. He can feel his eyes going red, can't find the strength to pull back the shift, doesn't <i>want</i> to when the sight of it makes Stiles lick his lips. "Little <i>monster</i>." </p>
<p>Peter waits, carefully scents the air and pays attention to their bond, and there's no hint of self-loathing or resentment at the nickname, nothing that indicates Stiles accepts the title as an accusation or a confirmation. Instead, it just makes Stiles grin, reply, "Tyrant." Peter growls, can't help it. Stiles' grin goes soft, full of adoration, and he asks, "Did you make me a snack like yesterday or am I gonna have to fix one myself?" </p>
<p>It's like Stiles knows exactly how to handle the alpha inside of Peter, redirecting the wolf's need to rut into the need to provide food, primal urges so easily diverted into doing whatever it takes to keep his mate happy. Peter's turning to the kitchen even before he realises it, and when he scents Stiles' amusement, Peter growls again, says, "Watch yourself, Stiles." </p>
<p>"Nah," Stiles says, light, as he follows Peter. "Much rather watch you." </p>
<p>If the wolf was any more on edge, or Peter any less in control, they'd be on the floor. Instead, Peter opens the fridge, takes out meat and cheese and mayo. He puts them on the counter and goes to slice some bread, listening as Stiles sits down on one of the stools. </p>
<p>"When I was talking to Solé earlier," Stiles says, "she said that she met you before. She wasn't sure so she checked her records." </p>
<p>Peter grasps onto the conversational overture with both hands, says, "She keeps <i>records</i> of that?" </p>
<p>Stiles laughs. "She keeps records of everything. I stumbled across one of her journals from when she first started summoning and it was <i>priceless</i>. She says it's her OCD, though one of her demons said it was something all summoners do, so she was going to look into it as a possible sign of magical affinity. I told her that maybe she was a dragon reincarnated and that memories were her hoard." He pauses, smells of fond remembrance and sighs. "Good times. She nearly cracked me in half that day." </p>
<p>Peter's hand tightens around the knife. "She <i>what</i>." </p>
<p>"Oh," Stiles says. "Uh. Well. We were practicing runes, except Solé was using a Sharpie and it bled through the paper to the table, which went rocketing up to the ceiling, hit <i>hard</i>, and spun a few times before falling back down. Instead of runes, we spent the rest of the day working on replacement and repair wards. Her whole house is covered in them. Oh!" and Peter turns just as Stiles straightens up, face brightening in realisation. "We can set replacement and repair wards on the pack house! You know, instead of using glue to keep everything down?" </p>
<p>Peter takes in a deep breath and says, "That sounds like a good plan," before turning back around and finishing Stiles' sandwich. </p>
<p>Stiles taps his fingers against the counter, a steady rhythm that echoes along with his heartbeat. Peter listens, lets the pattern of it calm him down, and his eyes are back to normal when he gives Stiles his sandwich along with a fork and a container of cut-up pineapple. Stiles' grin is tentative, like he's not sure he should be smiling, and Peter sighs. </p>
<p>"I don't like hearing about you almost getting hurt," he says. "And my memories of Mage Medina are --." He stops, searches for a word, finally settles on, "Vivid." </p>
<p>"You never told me you'd met her before," Stiles says, after he takes a bite of his sandwich, setting it down to pick up the fork and pull the tub of pineapple a little closer. "At least, I don't think you did. If I'd known, I would've -- I don't know what I would've done or said. But it would've been <i>something</i>. She's honestly not as intimidating as you probably remember -- you had to've met her before the fire, which means she was still trying to carve out a territory here and it's never good to show fear in the face of a pack executioner. She came on strong?" </p>
<p>Peter thinks back to those shadows, to the eyes that watched him for days afterwards, to the look of darkness clinging to her fingers in ways that defied all natural laws of physics. "You could say that," Peter drawls, even as the wolf whines in remembered fear. He'd felt so useless, going back to his pack and having to admit to his alpha that he had no idea how they'd ever be able to protect themselves against her if they ever needed to, that his best advice was to placate the mage instead of treating her like their equal. He'd recommended banning the pack from setting foot into her territory and something about the way he looked or sounded or smelled had scared Talia enough that she had agreed, when they rarely agreed on anything in those days. </p>
<p>Stiles sets down the fork, licks pineapple juice from his lips. His eyes go narrow at the sour tang and a tiny shudder wracks its way through his body. He reaches out, then, lays one hand palm-up across the counter. Peter takes it, squeezes tight, lets the solidity of Stiles' touch ground him. "She's mine, now," Stiles says. "And so are you. It won't be the same this time." </p>
<p>Peter hopes that Stiles is right. Mage Medina is important to Stiles -- as far as Peter knows, Stiles has only claimed three people: him, Derek, and Soledad Medina. If she's important enough for a claim, even if it was just part of their contract, then she's important to Stiles, and Peter, and the pack. </p>
<p>"If she terrifies me, I'm using her against our enemies," Peter says. "Not much scares me. She did. She'll be useful as a threat, if nothing else." </p>
<p>Stiles gives Peter a lopsided grin as he picks up the fork in his other hand, spears another chunk of pineapple. "She'll just love hearing that."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They leave once Stiles has eaten. Beacon Valley isn't far, maybe thirty-five minutes if there's no traffic on the state highway, and the drive's scenic enough, running along the preserve for a while before winding in curves down south. Stiles puts the windows down and keeps the radio off; he has one hand in Peter's and his head leaned back on the headrest, face tilted to gaze out the window. He looks beautiful in profile, from the curve of his jaw and cheekbones to the tip-tilted nose, eyelashes long and dark against the light outside. Sometimes Peter doesn't know how he gets to be so lucky, how he gets to <i>have</i> this, have <i>him</i>, that Stiles has willingly agreed to be Peter's for the rest of their lives. </p>
<p>"I can hear you thinking," Stiles says, turning to glance at Peter, smile on his face. </p>
<p>"I can feel you in the bond," Peter replies. "You feel exactly like what I'm thinking." </p>
<p>Stiles grins, a shy, slight type of smile, just the edges of his lips curled up, miniscule beginnings of crow's feet appearing at the corners of his Spark-white eyes. "Great minds think alike," he says. </p>
<p>Peter snorts. "So do filthy minds." </p>
<p>"No guesses as to which we have," Stiles says with a laugh. He turns away, then, looks back out the window, but his thumb strokes, back and forth, over Peter's skin, as they enter Beacon Valley. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Following Stiles' directions, Peter drives towards the west side of town, just inside the city limits. There are no subdivisions out this far, with identical houses on small plots of land, no neighbourhoods of mismatched houses with toys out front or apartment buildings with fences and rows of parking. This is the old-money side of town and each home is large, six or seven bedrooms at least, with the land to match: manicured lawns and old trees, picture-perfect flower beds and long driveways. Soledad Medina's is no different; the drive is a winding thing, rows of trees -- aspens, Peter thinks -- on each side, towering over tulips and hyacinth and columbines running along the ground. It looks grand, expensive, and the house, when they pull into the circle drive in front of it, is much the same. </p>
<p>"They wouldn't let her tear it down when she bought it," Stiles says, as Peter parks in front of the house. Peter turns off the car and peers out of Stiles' window, letting Stiles' voice roll over him and ease the trepidation rising in his gut. "Did she ever tell you that? She wanted something more Mission Revival but no one with that kind of existing house was planning on selling, so she just bought this one instead when it went on the market. She submits a planning proposal every time there's a change on the county board." </p>
<p>"She wasn't living here when I met her," Peter says. He gets out of the car, takes in the house: stone, large, elegant in its simplicity. It's not like one of those McMansions that he's seen popping up in Beacon Hills with more and more frequency; this was clearly designed by an architect with good taste, someone who understood the Chateauesque movement and adhered to it with religious fervour. It makes Peter think a little better of Mage Medina -- she may not have designed the house and she may not like the style but she's kept the aesthetic clean, consistent. "She had a house closer to the centre of town. Smaller." </p>
<p>Stiles makes a noise, says, "She said that she tried living a few places before she bought this. Apparently it's easier to hide demons when your closest neighbour is a half-mile away, rather than ten yards. Not that people knew that's what it was, but -- yeah. So. What d'you think?" </p>
<p>Peter glances over the rosebushes, notes the heavy cast iron accents, thinks about how the building would look at sunrise, morning shadows playing off the light blue cast of the stones, the corners and angles. "It's not my style but it's good. Nice." </p>
<p>"So glad you approve, wolf." </p>
<p>Peter whirls around. Mage Medina's standing about eight steps away, far enough that his claws aren't an immediate threat, close enough that he should've been able to hear her, smell her. He takes one step backwards and then Stiles is next to him, clicking his tongue against his teeth. </p>
<p>"Rude, Solé," Stiles says, and takes Peter's hand in his. </p>
<p>Mage Medina rolls her eyes. "How <i>else</i> am I supposed to have fun? I can't sneak up on <i>you</i> anymore and you told me to play nice with the UPS guy. Gotta take my kicks where I can get 'em, Sparky." </p>
<p>Stiles groans, snaps that he hates that nickname, and Medina replies, just as snappish, just as fond, giving Peter time to take her in. </p>
<p>She hasn't changed much in the years since Peter first met her. She looks like her sister's twin -- short, gaunt rather than skinny, dark hair -- but that's pretty much where the similarities end. Letitia let her hair loose, wore skinny jeans and a t-shirt, no other ornamentation, carried herself with the weight of a pack on her shoulders and something close to worship in her eyes every time she looked at Stiles, refusing to call him by name. The mage, though, has her hair pulled back in a tight French braid, has black diamond stud earrings going up both earlobes in a line of ten or so piercings. The bracelets on her wrists, silver and gold and copper, jingle against each other when she moves; the rings on each of her fingers, both at the base and higher up, nearer her knuckles, flash in the light, prisms bouncing off of onyx and cut glass. She's wearing jeans cut off just under her knees, a tight tank top, flip-flops. Her skin's lightly freckled, her eyes dark, and she looks nothing but full of exasperated adoration every time she so much as glances at Stiles. </p>
<p>"Earth to Peter," Stiles says, speaking right into Peter's ear. Peter rumbles and Stiles laughs, asks, "You done with the initial estimation?" </p>
<p>"Apologies, Mage Medina," Peter says, elbowing Stiles. "It's been a while." </p>
<p>She raises one eyebrow, looks him over, finally snorts. "I honestly don't know what it is Stiles sees in you," she tells Peter. The wolf bares its teeth; Peter merely holds the mage's gaze. "But it's his choice and we're connected, so. Welcome to my home. Don't touch anything." Peter narrows his eyes at the implied insult and she waves him off, says, "It's not a scent issue. Most things in my house are spelled. Stiles is keyed into all of them but you aren't and I know what he's like when he starts whining. If you get hurt, he'll whine." </p>
<p>Stiles kicks at the gravel, mutters, "Would not," as if he's a six-year-old getting reprimanded for stealing cookies instead of one of the most magically-gifted people alive. </p>
<p>"Should I be offended you wouldn't come to my defense, then?" Peter asks, lightly. </p>
<p>Stiles looks at him, glares. "I wouldn't whine. I'd heal you and then I'd tear Solé's house down around her. <i>Ugh</i>. Introducing you two was a mistake, I can already tell." </p>
<p>He goes storming away toward the front doors. Peter would be worried at the attitude except he can smell Stiles' good humour, can feel his amusement through the bond, combination of wildflower-filled meadows and a hand brushing against the wolf's fur. He watches Stiles go, eyes caught on how his ass looks in those skinny jeans, and shakes his head. </p>
<p>"If you hurt him, I won't kill you," Mage Medina says, coming to stand near Peter, though just barely out of reach. "That would be too easy. I'd make you pay. You'd suffer for centuries at my hands before I'd ever consider turning you over to my demons." </p>
<p>"I'd probably deserve it," Peter says. </p>
<p>Medina makes a noise, an amused huff that speaks to something of laughter. "At least we agree on that much," she says, and starts walking. "Come along, wolf. If you're brave enough for it, I'll make you a cup of tea." </p>
<p>"Tea." Peter says. "That sounds lovely." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>The house, when Peter walks inside, hands carefully pressed deep into his pockets, is filled with natural light and the chemical scent of oranges, a candle or air freshener, perhaps. Everything is light wood and glass, accented, like the outside, with cast iron and flowers. The ceilings are high and have exposed wooden beams, little crystal and golden ornaments hanging from them and throwing off prisms in every direction as they spin lazily and catch the light. The furniture looks showy but inviting, couches and chairs in coordinating colours with throws here and there even though the house is almost uncomfortably warm. There's a framed collage of tarot cards on one wall, a large cracked mirror on another, a couple of abstract paintings, lots of plain white and black taper candles in ornate golden candleholders, a few bookshelves that are filled with just as many knick-knacks as there are books. </p>
<p>Through it all, nothing <i>seems</i> outwardly inhospitable. There are shadows, though, that linger in the corners, too deep and dark to see through, odd angles of dark on the ceiling that creep and twist the longer Peter studies them, oozing across the paint, clinging to the cast iron,  and curling in spikes around the beams -- and there are eyes in those shadows, and hate, and an eagerness to spill blood. The air rings with the remembered screams of tortured souls, barely audible but pressed into every wall and pillow, and the overwhelming scent of oranges covers a hint of sulfur and gravedirt, like there's something rotting under the floor or just on the other side of the walls. The dangling ornaments move in ways they really shouldn't, not inside, with all the windows closed, and the warmth, the longer Peter stands in it, starts to press at his skin in uncomfortable ways that remind him of fire and torture and near-death. </p>
<p>It makes him walk a little faster and the house slowly shifts around him from the showroom-like front to a more lived-in back. The kitchen, when he gets there, is big and open, looks like a space where people actually live; the counters are covered in jars and small appliances, everything from a panini press to a blender, and there are bunches of herbs hanging above the island, drying out next to copper pots and pans. Stiles is just settling onto a stool at the island when Peter gets there, and he nods at the stove where a powder-blue kettle is slowly starting to heat up. </p>
<p>"She offered you tea?" Stiles asks, as Peter sits down next to him. "She always does for me."</p>
<p>"Is it safe to drink?" Peter asks in reply, doesn't care that Mage Medina lays a glare on him, not when Stiles is next to him, laughing and smelling of happy things. </p>
<p>Medina takes three mugs down from one of the cabinets, says, with more than a hint of distaste in her tone, "Allies, alpha. By the terms of the contract, I'd never be able to --" and she stops there, whirls around, points a finger at Stiles. "You. You little <i>shit</i>." </p>
<p>Stiles wilts and Peter waits for anger to fill him at the insult to his mate. It doesn't. Apparently his wolf and his senses both know that Medina's half-joking and that Stiles is only pretending to be cowed. </p>
<p>"He figured it out, Solé, I didn't tell him," Stiles says. "He's a clever wolf; I only gave him a couple clues." </p>
<p>Peter resists the urge to preen at the compliment and watches Medina instead. She hisses wordlessly at Stiles but doesn't argue back, merely bares her teeth for a moment before dropping the expression, heading over to a different cabinet and studying the boxes and bags of tea inside. "You still could've been hurt," she says, standing on her tiptoes to reach for a box on the second shelf. "Nearly faded away before you fixed it. Which reminds me, I got a call from the endocrinologist. He wants you to come in for a follow-up even though I told him you're fine. You have an appointment the week after school lets out." </p>
<p>Stiles groans, drops his head to the counter. "Witch," he says. </p>
<p>"Asshole," she replies. "You want the Cheerios?" </p>
<p>"Please," Stiles says. "Peter'll like the Cinnamon Toast Crunch." Peter raises an eyebrow; he does <i>not</i> like that cereal and weren't they talking about tea? How they jumped topics doesn't make sense to him -- then again, the fact these two have a language all their own means they're close, that Stiles accepts her and she's accepted him right back. That's reassuring. Stiles looks at him, leans over and places a kiss to Peter's cheek. "She has so many different tea blends that we had to start naming them ourselves," he says. "The one I like is a sweet peanut tea, lots of honey and sugar." </p>
<p>Peter nods, says, "Hence, Cheerios. What's mine, then?" </p>
<p>"A rooibos with cinnamon chips and a touch of maple syrup," Medina says, as she's taking milk out of the fridge. "Spicy with a hint of sweet." She sets the milk on the counter next to the cups and boxes of tea, turns around and leans back against the sink, folds her arms over her chest. The sunlight coming in from the window and the skylight plays around her hair -- but does nothing to dispel the shadows nestled in her French braid or clinging to the curve of her ears and sliding around all those stud earrings like tiny little threads of pure darkness. "Tea can tell a lot about a man. Or a wolf, I suppose," she adds, sounds reluctant.</p>
<p>Peter leans forward, curious now. "And what does Stiles' choice for me say about me?" </p>
<p>Medina meets his gaze and Peter can see dark, skulking things move in his periphery, goosebumps riding up and down his arms at the feeling of eyes watching him. Stiles lights up, then, not his expression or scent but his Spark, the glow around him springing into being, pulsing in rhythm to his heartbeat. The shadows retreat, Peter's vision clears, and he feels Stiles press protection and care down their bond. Peter can still <i>feel</i> the shadows, can still sense that he's being watched, but it matters less, now. </p>
<p>Medina's nose wrinkles, at what, Peter's not entirely sure, but she says, "More about him than you, I think. How he sees you, at any rate. But that's not why you're here." She turns her gaze to Stiles, then, and tells him, "Tish has been calling me eight times a day. What did my sister do?" </p>
<p>So many other people, Peter thinks, would ask Stiles what <i>he</i> did, unconsciously accusatory. It makes Peter think a little better of Medina. </p>
<p>"This time, it was me, not her," Stiles admits. "When I joined Peter's pack, we created an emissary bond. That, in combination with the mating bond, means that --" </p>
<p>"-- all of your alliances will need to be revisited," Medina says, finishing Stiles' sentence. "Fucking hell, Stiles. That's gonna take <i>weeks</i>." </p>
<p>Stiles hums, says, "I don't think so." Medina makes a noise of disbelief and Stiles grins, says, "I knew Peter and I were gonna mate when I was hammering them all out. You think I didn't prepare for that and put something into each and every one? Nah, Tish is pissed because my alpha and emissary bonds to her broke the instant Peter and I mated. I know she -- I know that having a Spark tied to the Bah'hatteno pack and the Triple Alliance gave her a lot of influence. It makes sense that losing it would make her angry, even beyond losing the power-up that the Spark gave her. I wasn't all that forthcoming about what we were doing, either, so she didn't have any warning it was going to happen." Stiles taps his fingers against the surface of the island, clearly debating on whether or not to go on, but he eventually shrugs and adds, "Also, she accused Peter of blackmailing me. I wasn't exactly happy about that." </p>
<p>Medina blinks at Stiles. "She did <i>what</i>." </p>
<p>Peter hadn't thought Stiles heard that -- but he's not surprised. They weren't very far apart, and even though Letitia had spoken quietly, she <i>had</i> grabbed Peter. It makes sense that Stiles would keep an eye on him. Still, the flush of knowing that someone was watching, that someone had his back and trusted Peter to deal with it on his own, runs through him and down to the wolf. </p>
<p>"She doesn't understand anything about Stiles," Peter says. "She knows, or thinks she knows, but she doesn't. Not really." </p>
<p>"And you do?" Medina asks. </p>
<p>Peter looks away from her and at Stiles, can't help the fondness that fills his expression when he sees his mate looking back at him with Spark-white eyes and the slightest smile curving up the corners of his mouth. "Not everything," Peter admits. "But more and more every day." </p>
<p>Medina snorts as the kettle starts whistling. "<i>Wolves</i>," she says, throwing her hands up as she turns around. "Idiots, the lot of you. Ugh."</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>They sit in the kitchen and drink tea for an hour. The shadows never go away and neither does the scent of them clinging to Medina, burning coal and bone ash and blood-soaked dirt, but they become easier to ignore the longer Peter sits there. A great deal of that is the comfort of knowing Stiles is here, right next to him, and that Medina is fond enough of Stiles to be wary of hurting him -- and hurting Peter will definitely hurt Stiles, even if the Spark protects Stiles from any rebounding broken bonds. </p>
<p>A smaller part of Peter's gradual relaxing is the realisation that Stiles was right: Medina's not as bad as he remembers. Oh, she's still terrifying, that's never going to go away, just like the shadows crawling over her, caught up in her hair and trapped in her jewelry, glinting out of her rings and wound around her bracelets, will always send a shiver down Peter's spine. She's settled, though, or matured, or feels safe in her own home, all of the above, maybe, with the same faith in Stiles that Peter has. Peter's grown as well, since the first time they met. After losing all of his pack bonds in a fire, after six years burning in a coma, after madness and death and resurrection, the sight of an accomplished mage with tight control over her demon summons isn't as horrifying as it used to be. </p>
<p>Small mercies. </p>
<p>Peter even feels safe enough to use the restroom on his own, following Medina's directions and keeping his hands firmly to himself. As he leaves the kitchen, he feels Spark-heat surround him like a shield, pressing close enough to his skin to feel, not enough to set off any panic. He moves steady but fast, walking down the centre of the hallway, moving through the middle of a couple rooms, eyeing everything carefully but not pausing to look at the view out the window, or the paintings, or to sniff the bouquet of cut roses on one of the hall tables. </p>
<p>He finds the bathroom, uses it quickly, and when he opens the door, there's a churning ball of shadows hovering right outside in the middle of the air. </p>
<p>Peter takes one very large step backwards, lets his gaze drop to the ground and unfocus from the hundred of eyes he got a brief glimpse of, the curls and coils of limbs arching and bending in unfamiliar, impossible ways, the utter darkness and evil that rings through every part of him and sets the beast inside to mindless, slavering fury.  </p>
<p><b><i><span class="small">Wolf</span></i></b>, Peter hears, though there's no sound, just an echo in his bones that he can somehow understand, turned from throbbing pain into language. For one unending, all-consuming moment, Peter feels terror in a way he's never known before, feels the promise of eternal madness pressing against his mind, something deeper and darker than he ever thought possible, something that reaches through him to the wolf, turns it hungry and howling. From the direction of the kitchen, he hears footsteps and a low swearing. The Spark-shield around him flares up, grows large and deep, hurts Peter's eyes to look at, much less through. He closes his eyes and the thing asks, <b><i><span class="small">By what right do you lay claim to what is ours</span></i></b>?</p>
<p>"He's not," Medina snaps. Peter looks up through narrowed eyes, sees Stiles right on her heels, the light of the Spark growing in exponential leaps and bounds around him, as Medina says, "He's chosen the wolf and we have no claim on him. Jesus fucking <i>christ</i>, you stupid, stupid idiots. You think you can <i>control</i> him?" </p>
<p>The shadows moan, an eerie noise that wavers and clashes discordant across octaves and keys. <b><i><span class="small">Control  him</span></i></b>, <b><i><span class="small">Take him back</span></i></b>, <b><i><span class="small">Claim him</span></i></b>, <b><i><span class="small">Make him ours</span></i></b>, <b><i><span class="small">Take back our Spark</span></i></b>.</p>
<p>Stiles snarls, then, and waves his hand at the shadows. There's a screeching, howling noise as the shadows burst apart like broken glass, shards tumbling every which way and then disintegrating in the Spark's luminescence. One or two of the mage's rings shatter and she mouths a curse as blood drips off her knuckles and out of her nose. Peter stands there, blinking, heaving in great gasping breaths, hearing as if from a great distance the phone in his back pocket ringing as he realises -- those weren't onyx in her rings, those were <i>demons</i>, trapped in the glass and bound to the metal. He watches as Stiles makes a gesture, sending barbed-wire balls of brilliant Spark-light soaring into every corner of the house, filling Peter's vision with scouring supernova radiance for just a moment -- a moment filled with screaming, with pain, with utter chaos, with the sounds of apologies, over and over again, <b><i><span class="small">Sorry</span></i></b>, <b><i><span class="small">Forgive us</span></i></b>, <b><i><span class="small">Never again</span></i></b>.</p>
<p>When it all ends, when the light is back to normal and Peter's heart has begun to settle, Stiles comes to him. He reaches out one arm, hesitates to touch Peter, but Peter yanks him close, wraps his arms around Stiles' waist and presses his eyes to the line of Stiles' shoulder. </p>
<p>"Fuck," Peter says, clearly and concisely. He can't come up with any better word to express the maelstrom he's feeling, that he just went through in the span of what must've been about thirty seconds though it feels like much, much longer. </p>
<p>"Sorry, Solé," Stiles says, though he doesn't smell apologetic at all. "I don't know how many I killed." </p>
<p>Medina makes a noise, says, "Six. There goes my fucking weekend. But don't apologise. They were stupid enough to try it; they deserved to pay. Your wolf gonna make it?" Peter lets out another low-breathed curse. Medina laughs, says, "He's tough, huh. You know, the first time one of them showed around Tish, she passed out and then couldn't get outside fast enough. Good to know you picked a wolf with more steel than my sister." </p>
<p>Stiles rubs up and down Peter's back, noses at Peter's hair, lets loose a low, rumbling sound that speaks right to the wolf, promises comfort and protection. It gives Peter the strength to lift his head, to press his forehead to Stiles'. "Don't <i>feel</i> like steel," Peter murmurs, ignoring his phone as it starts ringing again. "Just -- gimme a couple minutes." </p>
<p>"Sorry," Stiles tells him. This time he <i>does</i> smell like he means it. He leans in, gives Peter a kiss, just a small one, quick, but it does more to settle Peter than anything else, like Stiles' breath poured some kind of balm over the mental scars of coming up against something so formlessly alien and <i>evil</i>. Stiles bumps his forehead against Peter's, says, "I promised you'd be safe here and that happened and -- I'm <i>sorry</i>, Peter." </p>
<p>"You came for me," Peter says. "Killed the -- holy shit," and his eyes go wide. "You just killed six demons." </p>
<p>Stiles frowns, leans back a little and pokes at Peter's throat, presses the back of his hand to Peter's forehead and cheeks like he's testing for fever. "Well, yeah," he says. "They came after you. What was I supposed to do, let them go with a stern talking-to? No, I don't think so." </p>
<p>Peter doesn't -- he doesn't get it, get how Stiles is so dismissive of his power, of the fact that he can do what others only dream of, that apparently demons crave him and Stiles has the ability to tell them no and wave them away. </p>
<p>"They're not all assholes," Medina says. She moves closer carefully, either in deference to what Peter's just experienced or to Stiles' temper. "Those ones were young. With age comes wisdom; they had neither if they thought they'd be able to corrupt a Spark." She pauses, adds, "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. If you'd like to claim reparations, you're fully within your rights." </p>
<p>"No," Peter says. He takes a deep breath, stands up straight, though he's still clinging to Stiles' hand, holding on tighter than he probably should. "Stiles dealt with them. I just -- please don't take offense, but I'd like to leave now if you two have everything hashed out." </p>
<p>Medina immediately steps to the side, head tilted to bare her throat. "If we missed anything, we can handle it over the phone."</p>
<p>Stiles tugs Peter through the house and outside, then. Peter tilts his head up to the sun, closes his eyes and doesn't look back at the house. His body's regained something close to equilibrium though his mind is still racing, throbbing around the edges, slowly being soothed by the Spark-heat washing through him and the comfort Stiles is sending down their bond. He feels his phone vibrate with an incoming text message and he takes it out of his pocket, looks down at it and sees that he's missed six calls -- three from Derek, one each from Lydia, Danny, and Malia -- and a whole handful of texts from the rest of the pack. Peter doesn't have the energy to call them back yet so he just sends a group text, says, <i>We're okay. Leaving the mage's house soon.</i> </p>
<p>"Do you know what demons are?" Medina asks. </p>
<p>Peter flinches, startled, at the sudden question when he'd been focused on breathing, listening to the birds and insects, feeling the sun on his face and smelling the comforting scent of his mate every time he inhales. He looks at Stiles, first, who looks amused but smells nothing of the sort, then to Medina. "No," he says, slowly. </p>
<p>He's read theories, of course, but most of them fall into one of those slippery-slope arguments: if there are demons, then that means there are angels, that there's a hell and a heaven and a god who oversees everything -- or, at least, one that created everything before fucking off and leaving humans to ruin themselves at their own speed, in their own way. Peter's never had much use for a higher power and any doubt he possessed about whether they really are alone in the universe was burned out of him in the fire. No god would see that action and refuse to step in unless they're cruel and capricious; if that's the truth of what they are, then humanity is better off without them. </p>
<p>"Neither do I," Medina says. That surprises Peter. Surely a <i>demon summoner</i> would know where the basis of her power lies, or at least be able to wring an answer out of her summons. "It's an interesting philosophical question." </p>
<p>Peter looks at Stiles, asks, mildly, "Do you know?" </p>
<p>"I have my theories," Stiles says. His heart doesn't trip but there's something strange about the way he's looking at Medina, eyes hard and jaw clenched. There's an odd tang in the scent coming off of Stiles, something -- old, is the best way Peter can describe it, old and powerful, caught up in ancient tales of divine warning and divine punishment. </p>
<p>Medina bares her teeth in response to Stiles' expression, the madness that Peter remembers from their first meeting, all those years ago, slithering like a veil over her eyes. Stiles makes a noise of disgusted disapproval  and Peter gets the sensation of Stiles yanking at something that isn't him. Medina shudders, though, and the rage clears from her gaze. Peter realises, in that moment, that there's more to Medina's current sanity than he's guessed at. Age, experience, maturity, all of those might serve to help her find her footing, might help ground her, but Stiles claimed her as well and there's no telling what kind of assistance that claim gives Medina in controlling her own abilities. </p>
<p>Medina shakes her head, to clear it, Peter thinks, and says, "Theories which he hasn't shared with me," her tone colder than he expected, for her addressing Stiles. She glances at Peter, dark eyes brimming with an insanity that's only barely chained, says, "I'd ask you to ask him, see if he responds better to a mate-claim than a mentor-claim, but you wolves," and she laughs even though there's nothing humorous in the sound. "Always so loyal to your fucking packs." </p>
<p>If Peter didn't know Medina's history, he'd wonder at how bitter she sounds. He does know, though, and something inside of him rages at the thought of a pack, even one as brutal as those that make up the Triple Alliance, excommunicating this woman when she was still just a child, all because her magic tends toward the dark and the occult. They should've fought fang and claw to keep her, to teach her, to make sure she could grow as powerful as possible while blanketing her in pack bonds, not pushing her so far as to run away from everyone and everything she knew, including a sister who loved her enough to scrabble for power and then toss it all away just to be able to <i>talk</i> to her. Peter might not have much respect for the River Alpha after the way she responded to Stiles, but he respects what she did in order to restore her sister's name. </p>
<p>"You may not want to hear this," Peter says, "but <i>you</i> are pack, now." Medina's eyes go wide, her mouth opens in shock. "We may never have a pack bond but you share a magical bond to my mate, which makes you one of mine through him. So as much as you and your demons terrify me, and as much as I never hope to share space with you or them again, you are one of <i>mine</i>, with all the benefits that being attached to a pack provides." </p>
<p>"All of the drawbacks, too," Stiles says. Peter gives him a look and Stiles rolls his eyes, tells Peter, "There <i>are</i> drawbacks, Peter, even <i>you</i> have to admit that. Territory battles, posturing, alliance negotiations, possessiveness." </p>
<p>Peter snorts, says, "You never seem to complain about the possessiveness." </p>
<p>Stiles laughs, the noise clear and beautiful, ringing out around them and purifying the air, some kind of holy consecration like church bells or ritual incense. "I'm not exactly normal," Stiles points out, "and I'm not exactly any less possessive than you are." Peter bares his teeth in a mock-snarl and Stiles shakes his head, laughs again. He reaches out, takes Peter's hand in his, and rubs his thumb in circles on Peter's skin, the touch branding Peter deep, soothing a part of the wolf that was still on edge from what happened in Mage Medina's house. Peter doesn't have much time to glory in the comfort; Stiles turns back to Medina and points out, "You're pack, Solé. That means the Triple Alliance has to deal with you differently, now. An insult to you is an insult to the Hale pack -- and believe me, both Peter and I would <i>revel</i> in making them pay." </p>
<p>Going up against the Triple Alliance is something that Peter never thought he'd be willing to do. He wants to bring back the Hale pack's reputation, though, to the way people spoke of his grandparents and great-grandparents, the respect bordering on fear that kept them safe for so many years before his parents and sister ruined the family to the point where Argents dared to move against them -- and while building a strong, powerful pack will help, he'll only <i>really</i> regain the good graces of the supernatural community by living up to the promise of his treaties and defending insults to his allies. Having Stiles on his side -- and possibly, if their meeting goes well, a Macfie -- means he doesn't really have to fear any potential fights but it's far past time for Peter to read the alliances and treaties Stiles has committed them to upholding. No doubt Stiles has worked in a number of loopholes and double standards that can only be to their advantage; it's better for Peter to be familiar with those before any fight comes their way</p>
<p>Stiles leans over, kisses Peter on the cheek. "You're scheming. I love it when you scheme." </p>
<p>Peter can smell how much Stiles appreciates it, feels the thrum of it through their bond, hitting him at the base of his spine. Peter grins, gives Stiles a wide, hungry smile. </p>
<p>Stiles returns it, just long enough to get Peter's wolf panting, ready to start howling, before he turns to Medina. "I'll let you know when I can come back," Stiles tells her. "There's shit going down in Beacon Hills that we need to focus on, but I'll try and stop by for a visit next week sometime. I think there are things we need to talk about." </p>
<p>Medina wrinkles her nose but doesn't disagree. "As you say, Stiles." There's a hint of condescension in the answer, a little bit of the tone that Letitia used, more obsequious than anything else, but at least Medina used Stiles' name. "Will you be bringing your wolf? I'll bind the summons tight and banish them to the attic if you plan on it." </p>
<p>Peter answers before Stiles can. His eyes catch, just for a moment, on the mage's earrings. Before, he'd thought them black diamond but now, knowing what he does about her rings, he thinks perhaps that those twenty or so studs contain demons as well. Peter does his best to shake off that stray thought and tells Medina, "Stiles can come as he likes; I'm not the kind of alpha who demands to know where his pack is at all times -- but, and I mean no offense, Mage Medina, I will come to your defense if you need it but I never want to step foot in your territory again." </p>
<p>Medina actually smiles a little at that, just enough to see. "You said much the same the last time we met. Fair enough. And, again -- I'm sorry for what happened." </p>
<p>Peter inclines his head, says nothing more. </p>
<p>"I'm not happy, Solé," Stiles says, "but we'll work on it." He goes for Medina, then, and hugs her with one arm even as his other hand is still holding onto Peter's. The hug doesn't last long and when they break apart, Stiles cups one palm to her cheek. "Take a deep breath, drink some tea, and go to bed early tonight. You can yell at them tomorrow. Make them do the work of summoning six more, and for fuck's sake, pick smarter ones this time." </p>
<p>"Sometimes I like the dumb ones," Medina grumbles. "They're like puppies." She nods, though, as she moves back toward the front door. </p>
<p>Stiles tugs Peter in the other direction, mutters, "Puppies? More like blind lemmings." </p>
<p>Peter never thought he'd be able to laugh again but he does now. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Once they're in the car and heading north, leaving Beacon Valley, Stiles thunks his head back against the headrest and says, "I <i>am</i> sorry." </p>
<p>"I know," Peter says. "It's not your fault. But tell me: is she really your mentor? You're a Spark; what could she possibly teach you that you don't already know?" </p>
<p>Stiles twists in his seat enough to look at Peter, to give him an affectionate smile. "How long has that been bothering you?" he asks, smelling and looking like he's holding back a laugh. Peter grumbles back a nonsense reply, gives Stiles an expectant look, and Stiles shakes his head, the smile dimming a little. "Everything's unlocked for us when we ignite," he says, "but that doesn't mean we completely understand it. It doesn't mean we instantly know how to use it. There's so much to parse out, so much time that needs to be spent putting things in order, learning how things go together, understanding the complexities and complications. It's -- sorry for this, but it's the difference between knowing that demons are evil and coming face-to-face with one and <i>understanding</i> it."</p>
<p>Peter hums, says, "The difference between all of us knowing about Sparks and knowing <i>you</i>. Knowledge versus wisdom. Fact versus truth." </p>
<p>"Something like that, yeah," Stiles says. </p>
<p>"One more question," Peter says, "then we can talk about dinner and sex and sleep. You claimed her. Why?"</p>
<p>Stiles blows out a breath from between his teeth. "Always with the tough questions, huh. Okay. Well. Claims -- for those who have an instinctive reaction to the Spark, claims can -- steady them. The way you feel now, the way Derek feels now, you're able to push aside the instincts and interact with <i>me</i>. Solé -- Solé had an instinctive response to me as well." </p>
<p>Peter considers the demons, the way Medina's bound to them, talked about them. Anyone magically sensitive to them the way Medina is would reflect some of those characteristics, would feel the ricocheting echoes of their feelings within her own. </p>
<p>"She hated you at first, didn't she," Peter guesses. He and Derek dropped to their knees with awe, but a demon summoner -- she'd never feel awe for a Spark. </p>
<p>"Tried to kill me the first time I went on her property," Stiles says. He's even smiling. "A claim was the only way I could get through to her. It had the benefit of giving her something stable, too; mages are generally left alone by the wider world but those who have ties to creatures who exist on other planes need connections on this one in order to stay sane. She survived long enough to get out here because of her friendships but she was well on her way to burning out when I met her. Claiming her kept her alive." He pauses, admits, "I know there are people who say that I should've let her fade, but --." </p>
<p>He trails off and Peter reaches over, places his hand on top of Stiles'. "You might not care about people," Peter says, "but you care about magic. It's not in you to let magic die out, even if it's magic that would terrify the rest of us." </p>
<p>Stiles gives Peter a tired smile, scoots close enough to shift and lean his head on Peter's shoulder. "If you're done with your questions, let's talk about dinner and sex and sleep," he says. "Which should we start with?" </p>
<p>Peter laughs, just a little chuckle, and says, "Let's go see if anyone's at home. If they're all there, we'll get food. If not, I'm going to put you on your knees and make you beg." </p>
<p>"I'll text to make sure they're all somewhere else," Stiles says, arching to pull his phone out of his back pocket. "Tell them we'll catch up with them later." </p>
<p>Peter inhales, smells arousal and desire emanating out from Stiles in waves that threaten to loose the wolf. "Good idea," he says, tone verging on a growl, eyes flickering alpha-red.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peter chases Stiles inside the townhouse, the two of them stumbling over each other as Peter uses claws to rip Stiles' clothes from his body and Stiles uses the Spark's heat to burn apart the seams on Peter's. They collide in the living room after Peter jumps over the sofa to catch Stiles; Peter turns them as they fall, rolling so he hits the ground first, the thump and resulting loss of air doing nothing to cool down the heat between them. Stiles, straddling him, gives Peter a wicked, vicious smile, and Peter snarls, flips them over, holds Stiles' wrists in one hand. Stiles fights the hold and Peter bares his teeth, growling, as he digs his claws into Stiles' flesh, spilling blood everywhere. </p>
<p>"Holy fucking <i>shit</i>," Derek says. </p>
<p>Peter roars and Stiles tears one hand out of Peter's hold, claws drawing deep lines across Stiles' skin, and punches him on one ear, hard enough that <i>both</i> of Peter's ears ring. Peter rears back, shaking his head, and Stiles leans up, shoves Peter to one side. </p>
<p>"I told you not to be here," Stiles says. "Wasn't joking." </p>
<p>"I -- yeah," Derek says. He sounds like he's choking. "I -- I see that. Uh." </p>
<p>Stiles knees Peter in the gut; while Peter's trying to get his breath back, Stiles squirms out from under him and scrambles on hands and knees -- <i>fast</i> -- out of Peter's reach to stand up. "Bedroom's warded for all sound except heart beats," Stiles says, keeping his gaze on Peter and walking backwards, slow but steady. Peter's almost entirely given over to the wolf; he bares his fangs, pins alpha-red eyes on his mate, and starts stalking towards Stiles. "You're welcome to stay," Stiles says, "but you can't complain later." </p>
<p>Derek makes a noise but Peter ignores it. All he sees is his prey, slowly walking backwards up the steps, toward the bedroom. He curls his lip when Derek's scent hits him -- full of indecision, a little disgust, the worrying burn of anger -- but the underlying scent is pack, is <i>his</i>, and when Peter snarls, Derek lets loose a whine of obedience. Peter pauses, intending to scent Derek and reassure him, but Peter's mate turns his back and starts to <i>run</i>. </p>
<p>The wolf inside of Peter takes control. He chases his mate up the stairs, into a room that smells of them and glitters with starlight. His mate's on the other side of the bed, taking off the last scraps of clothes still caught on his body, and Peter mirrors him, tosses the fabric far enough away that if his mate runs, Peter won't trip over anything chasing him down. </p>
<p>"How much of you is in there right now?" his mate asks. Peter bares his teeth, lets out a rumbling growl that echoes through the room. "'Bout that much, huh." </p>
<p>His mate blows a kiss at him but the wolf can feel the magic inherent in the action, can scent heat and power in the little ball of sunlight that comes right at him. The wolf trusts their mate, though -- bonded and claimed and bitten, how could he not? -- so he lets the light hit him, soak into him, chain the wolf with little wreaths of daisies, camellias, Persian buttercups, and flowering aconite. </p>
<p>Peter sneezes, shakes his head, and gives Stiles a look of mingled exasperation and fondness. Stiles shrugs one shoulder in response, says, "You're the one who said you were gonna put me on my knees. Don't think the wolf was really interested in that." </p>
<p>"Brat," Peter mutters, loud enough for Stiles to hear -- and Stiles does, merely gestures to himself as if to say, 'Yes, we all know this, <i>and</i>?' "Fine. You want to be on your knees, I'll put you there." He walks around the bed, the wolf's stalking prowl evident in every movement, and Stiles stands there, watches him, scent flooded with arousal and anticipation. When Peter gets to Stiles, he puts his hands on Stiles' hips, tugs Stiles close, and Stiles falls a little off balance, puts his hands on Peter's chest to brace himself. "You gave my wolf a fucking <i>flower crown</i>," he murmurs, running his nose along Stiles' cheek, tongue darting out to lick Stiles, taste the sweat and salt on his skin, the faintest hint of heat burning his tongue. </p>
<p>"More of a garland," Stiles murmurs, shifting just enough to nip at Peter's lower lip, biting hard enough to sting, not hard enough to draw blood. "If it wouldn't offend your wolf, I'd call you a prime thoroughbred." </p>
<p>Peter snorts. He lets his claws emerge but doesn't move his hands, so when the points come out, they dig right into Stiles' skin. Stiles hisses but doesn't move away from the hurt, just tilts his hips forward as the scent of want combines with the light coming off of Stiles' skin to fog up the air around them. Peter's eyes go heavy-lidded as he brushes little biting kisses against Stiles' mouth, always leaning back when Stiles leans in, keeping his mouth closed when Stiles licks and bites to try and get Peter's mouth open. He can feel the frustration ringing down through their bond and he keeps up the game, waiting for frustration to melt into desperation -- but it tips over into something approaching betrayed resignation instead. </p>
<p>"Should've let your wolf fuck me," Stiles says, as he -- not Peter -- pulls back. "He didn't seem to have an issue with me." </p>
<p>"Oh, sweetheart, <i>no</i>," Peter says. Stiles tugs to try and get out of Peter's hold, away from Peter's claws, but Peter doesn't let him go. Stiles inhales sharply as the claws dig in deeper but he still fights. Peter can't wrap his hand around Stiles' throat the way he wants to; he settles for drawing claws up Stiles' back, leaving scratches and welts in their wake, and then he grips Stiles' hair tight, yanking Stiles' head back so hard and fast that Stiles' neck cracks. "The only issue I have with you," Peter snarls, meeting the vicious look on Stiles' face with his own, "is that you think I don't want you." </p>
<p>Stiles fights to get out of Peter's hold but he's only using human strength as he kicks and punches and swings his head this way and that to try and get Peter's hand out of his hair. "You obviously fucking <i>don't</i>," Stiles says, snapping his teeth at Peter. "Oh, the wolf does, <i>fine</i>, maybe I'll just take that <i>flower crown</i> back and let <i>him</i> have me." </p>
<p>Peter uses his grip on Stiles' hair to throw Stiles on the bed. Stiles lands belly-down and before he can roll over or off, Peter drops on top of him, gets his teeth into Stiles' shoulder. Stiles howls, bucks to try and throw Peter off of him, but the angle's all wrong and Peter's too heavy. Stiles doesn't stop fighting, though, and Peter laughs around the flesh and blood in his mouth. </p>
<p>When Stiles pauses, panting as he tries to regain his breath, Peter gently pulls his fangs out of Stiles' skin. "The submission's a pretty thing when you do it willingly," Peter murmurs, using his feet and the wolf's strength to push Stiles' legs apart. "But I'll take it from you if I have to. Equally as <i>pretty</i>." </p>
<p>"Is that what you want me for?" Stiles asks. "My good looks?" He scoffs, says, "You should get your eyes checked, <i>alpha</i>, and I'll be <i>dead</i> before I let you take me like some two buck truck stop hooker." </p>
<p>Peter lifts up just long enough to get his hand on Stiles' back, between his shoulder blades, and press down hard. Stiles coughs at the force of it, has to turn his head to the side in order to keep breathing. The scintillating radiance around him pulses, flares bright and burning. Peter yanks his hand back, cursing at the pain as his palm blisters. </p>
<p>He's just about to put a pause on this, suddenly thinking that maybe he's overstepped his bounds, pushed Stiles too hard, barrelled through some unspoken rule of their game, but Stiles groans out, "Ah, <i>shit</i>, fuck, sorry," and wriggles to roll over. He takes Peter's hand in his and winces at the sight, scent flaring regret and bond screaming apologies, as he sighs and says, "I fucking hate myself sometimes."</p>
<p>"Actually," Peter says, thoughtfully, "I think I'm honoured?" </p>
<p>Stiles looks at him as if Peter's lost his mind. "Excuse me," he says. "But I think you just said something impossibly stupid. Are you -- did it go deeper than your skin?" </p>
<p>Peter smiles at Stiles, though the smile flickers into a grimace once his healing kicks in and the blisters start to drain. "I," Peter says, and he knows how smug he looks, looks and sounds, "made you lose control." </p>
<p>The scent coming off of Stiles goes thick and twisted, some emotion Peter can't parse, some smell he can't identify, but full of contradictions: strong like steel and thin like spiderwebs, silk over broken skin, gasoline taffy. "It's not good when I lose control," Stiles tells him, voice low, eyes so white that they almost look black in the centre, a fire so hot that it's burned away all light and gone empty, reaching out to swallow down the nothingness of space in a desperate need to find <i>something</i> to eat. </p>
<p>Peter's captivated, understands the urge that Lydia and Malia had to reach out and touch when Stiles first showed them his Spark eyes, and he lets out a breath as he presses fingertips to the skin under Stiles' eyes. Stiles flinches, though, and blinks long. When he opens his eyes again, they're back to their natural human beauty and the light around him is gone as well, the Spark locked away. </p>
<p>"Come on," Stiles says, tired. "Let's get cleaned up. Derek's downstairs; we should probably give him an explanation for what happened at Solé's." He makes a move to get up, pauses when Peter doesn't get off of him. "Peter." </p>
<p>"Are you saying that because you feel guilty or because you're honestly not in the mood for sex anymore?" Peter asks. </p>
<p>Stiles rolls his eyes. "Like you are," he retorts, all attitude. "I gave you second-degree burns, Peter." Peter merely looks down, looks back at Stiles, one eyebrow raised. Stiles follows his gaze, almost double-takes. "How can you still be -- I <i>hurt</i> you, Peter." </p>
<p>Peter scoffs, says, "And you stayed hard even through all the bloodletting. My claws and fangs went deep enough to hit bone, Stiles." He runs fingertips ghost-soft across Stiles' hip, then picks up one of Stiles' hands, traces the curve of Stiles' palm. There's no sign that Peter dug in deep enough that any human would need stitches, no indication that he came dangerously close to severing the delicate tendons and ligaments in Stiles' hand. He brings Stiles' hand up to his mouth; Peter lets his fangs drop just enough so that when he scrapes them over Stiles' knuckles, it's obvious that they're not human teeth. This close, this still, Peter can feel it when Stiles' heartbeat kicks a moment too early, when the slightest wave of goosebumps floods down his arms. "You see?" Peter says, quiet. </p>
<p>"I could have killed you," Stiles says. "If I -- when I lose control, I kill things. My Spark thought you were -- I -- Peter, you can't --," and he trails off, shudders. He turns his head to the side, closes his eyes, says, "No, Peter. It's not a good thing." </p>
<p>Peter gives that the consideration it deserves. This is something Stiles fears, something he's terrified of, and so Peter won't dismiss it out of hand even though he thinks Stiles is really missing the point here. "You claimed me," Peter says. Stiles makes a noise of agreement but doesn't otherwise move. "The claim -- everything of yours is part of everything of you. Which means that <i>I'm</i> part of you. You could never really <i>hurt</i> me, Stiles, not when the Spark knows me as its own. Injure, sure, incapacitate, yes, but not kill me, not hurt me beyond healing. I know that you hate yourself, Stiles, and that some part of you craves --" death, he means, but he can't say it, he won't ever say it, just in case hearing it is enough to give Stiles the spine to go through with it, "-- but -- as long as you still exist, so will I." </p>
<p>For just a moment, Peter's vision goes white with a sudden, heart-stopping realisation. He's never really considered the average life expectancy of a Spark but now -- <i>everything of mine is part of everything of me</i>. How long do Sparks live? They have to ask Death to grant them peace, but -- if they don't, does that mean --</p>
<p>Stiles shifts, squirms out from under Peter just enough to sit up, to put his hands on Peter's cheeks, cupping Peter's face. "Stop thinking about it," Stiles says, wry twist to his mouth, some sort of deep, familiar horror riding in on a wave of exhaustion in the undercurrents of his scent and brushing up against the familiar Southern fields of Stiles' tobacco and cotton and lemon before ebbing back out, leaving heart-deep pain and apology in its wake. </p>
<p>The advice is good, and Peter knows that Stiles will explain to him <i>exactly</i> what the claim means, in this context, at some point, but it still takes effort to wipe it away. He forces himself to move on, focuses on Stiles, and says, quietly, "Please don't hide from me, Stiles." </p>
<p>Stiles bites his bottom lip. "I didn't know if -- it's okay to be scared of it. Fuck, I'm still scared of it, and it's -- y'know, it's <i>me</i>. It's okay to not want to be reminded of it." </p>
<p>Peter leans in, gives Stiles a kiss, tells him, "You're <i>my</i> monster." </p>
<p>Stiles holds his gaze, studies Peter, and then the Spark-white eyes come back, the lingering moonlight glow returns, and Stiles' mouth curves up in a familiar, welcome smile. "So. Still feel like despoiling me, alpha?" </p>
<p>Peter can't stop himself from laughing. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>In the end, Peter blows Stiles in the shower. It's perhaps a more gentle, even slightly more reverent, act than Peter had been expecting on the car ride home from Beacon Valley; Stiles comes with a murmured gasp and his hands loose in Peter's hair, and when he jacks Peter off, he's kissing Peter like he's drinking down something holy. Peter washes them both, himself perfunctorily, Stiles with soft touches and even softer kisses, fully aware that in other times, in other places, the act of cleaning a Spark might be considered something sacred. It feels like it, here, steam all around them, their scents -- two people, wholly secure in each other, comfortable with their own and each other's physicality -- mixing in the humidity. </p>
<p>The mood even follows them downstairs, both of them wearing sleep pants, Stiles wearing a shirt but Peter going without. Derek, sitting in the kitchen with a cup of strong cinnamon tea almost right under his nose, looks up at them, scans them both from head to toe. </p>
<p>"Okay?" he asks, carefully, like he feels he shouldn't but can't help himself. </p>
<p>Peter and Stiles look at each other, and Stiles tilts his head just enough for Peter to see and smile at. Peter goes over to Derek, wraps his hand around the back of Derek's neck, and leans down, rubs his nose in Derek's hair. "Brilliant," Peter says. "You?" </p>
<p>Derek returns the scenting, runs a hand down Peter's arm, then looks around to Peter to lay his eyes on Stiles. Stiles lifts one hand, shows it off, and the last bit of tension in Derek's frame seeps out and disappears. "A little worried at how violent your sex life seems to be," Derek snarks, though there's a hint of truth in his words as well. Peter realises, then, just why Derek smelled of disgust and anger earlier; it can't be easy to have seen that slight glimpse into the kind of sex Peter and Stiles have been having. "Thank god you both heal." </p>
<p>Stiles follows Peter into the kitchen, props one hip against the counter and tells Derek, "It's fully consensual, okay? Maybe not safe, definitely not sane, but always consensual." </p>
<p>Derek holds Stiles' gaze for a moment, then lets out a theatrical groan and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I could've happily gone my whole life without knowing that you and my uncle have the kind of sex where you'd have to know what that means." </p>
<p>Stiles snorts, leans down to whisper something in Derek's ear. It's too soft for Peter to hear but whatever it is ends up with Derek's scent blooming embarrassment, arousal, and the tiniest taste of interest. </p>
<p>Derek gives Stiles a dirty look, elbows him, and says, "Just for that, you're in charge of dinner." </p>
<p>"Sure thing," Stiles says, grinning as he walks behind Peter to get to the fridge and stove, brushing his hand along Peter's lower back, fingers pressing hard as they trail across Peter's skin. "But you'll thank me later." </p>
<p>Peter follows Stiles, wraps one arm loosely around Stiles' waist as they both look in the fridge. "Should we be expecting company?" Peter asks, as he considers what they can make for dinner if everyone else in the pack is planning on coming over. </p>
<p>Derek, though, says, "No. Lydia said she'd get the story from Stiles tomorrow and Danny and Malia seemed okay with that. It's just the three of us for dinner but Malia said she might come by later to sleep." </p>
<p>There's enough food in the house that they should be able to make whatever any of them are in the mood for, but Peter doesn't want to cook and there's still a tang of exhaustion present in his bond to Stiles. Snacks might work but Peter's hungry, hungry enough to want more than a sandwich, too hungry to wait for a stew or casserole to cook. He looks at Stiles, who looks back at him, and says, "Pizza?" </p>
<p>Stiles elbows him, says, "We need to stop eating so much take-out, especially when you're practically throwing money at the grocery store and butcher. But -- yeah. Sorry. Pizza sounds really, really good." He pauses, then asks, cautious with hope, "If we get it from the place on Main, can we get an order of pesto garlic knots?" </p>
<p>"Of course," Peter says, biting back the urge to remind Stiles he shouldn't feel so hesitant to ask for what he wants. He tilts his head, rubs his nose against Stiles', and reminds himself that taking two steps forward and then one step back is still progress, no matter how slow. "Whatever you want." </p>
<p>"Invisibility and time travel, then," Stiles says, immediately, laughter brightening up his eyes. "Maybe a Batmobile? Ooo, I know, web shooters. And a sentient AI." </p>
<p>Derek snorts, mutters, "You're such a nerd," but says it loud enough and amused enough that when Stiles turns to him, hands on hips and mouth open in indignant fury, delight and glee are thick in Stiles' scent. </p>
<p>"I'd rather be a nerd than a <i>dork</i>, Derek," Stiles says. He lifts his chin, pretends at haughtiness, and adds, "Nerds rule the world these days, you know." </p>
<p>The two devolve into casual teasing as Peter calls the pizzeria and orders enough food to feed an army -- or two werewolves and a Spark. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>The conversation over dinner -- pizza charred around the edges from the wood fire, garlic knots, a much better antipasto salad than anyone would ever expect from a pizza place, and a bottle of red wine -- remains light and teasing. Derek gives Stiles' pizza a raised eyebrow when Stiles opens the lid to reveal a classic margherita rather than pepperoni but doesn't say anything, and his scent fades into a sort of reluctant affection when Stiles swoons over the garlic knots, pulls one apart, and drops pesto all over his shirt when he tries to stuff both halves in his mouth at once. Peter rolls his eyes but knows that his scent is all tender happiness. </p>
<p>Even messy, even with consideration and a sort of fierce clarity echoing down their bond, Peter adores Stiles beyond words. Most other wolves would call Peter besotted or mate-drunk, but both of those imply a sort of -- blindness, he thinks, preferring to see the object of affection through rose-tinted glasses and wholly incapable of admitting the existence of sharp edges and hidden depths. Peter, though, knows Stiles. He's not blind at all when it comes to his mate. </p>
<p>Stiles brushes his ankle against Peter's, under the table, and lifts an eyebrow in silent question, sending worry down the bond even though his scent doesn't reflect that emotion. Peter gives him a smile in return, scritches his toenails against the side of Stiles' foot, and takes another bite of food. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>With the few leftovers packed away and the mess cleaned up, they gravitate to the living room. Peter sits down on one end of the couch, Derek on the other, and Stiles sprawls out, head on Peter's lap, toes tucked under Derek's thighs, knees up and one hand draped over his stomach. He looks and smells half-asleep, gives a sort of shuddery, yawning moan of approval when Peter starts to rub his scalp. </p>
<p>Derek, reeking of reluctance, wince written on his face, asks, quietly, "What happened at the mage's?" </p>
<p>Stiles doesn't respond, eyes closed, mouth open the slightest bit, too boneless and given over to an impending food coma to answer. The bond between him and Peter, though, takes on the taste and feel of support and regret, and Peter smiles down at Stiles, scritches his nails a little harder against Stiles' scalp in silent thanks. </p>
<p>"I came face-to-face with some of the mage's summons," Peter says. His hand stops moving. The memory of it still, here, now, makes him ache with remembered terror. Derek's face goes white, maybe at Peter's words or the scent coming off of him, maybe both. "It wasn't -- pleasant." </p>
<p>"Stiles didn't stop them?" Derek asks. </p>
<p>Stiles moves, hips tilting as he shifts, and judging by the way Derek winces and his scent goes apologetic, Stiles has done something with the feet buried under Derek's thighs. Peter has experience with those feet; they're bony and Stiles never trims his toenails. "Stiles stopped 'em," Stiles mutters, butting his head up against Peter's hand, begging for more pets like a cat might, "so calm down, Der." </p>
<p>Peter meets Derek's gaze, says, "Stiles didn't just stop them. He <i>destroyed</i> them. And the mage offered reparations. She said it was poor judgment on her part." </p>
<p>"Do you believe her?" Derek asks, eyes flicking down to Stiles, just briefly. </p>
<p>"I do," Peter says, thoughtfully, after a moment, giving Derek's question the consideration it deserves. Even with Stiles here, half-awake and listening, bond growing taut with tension the longer Peter hesitates to answer, Peter thinks about it. "I think -- she trusts them. She has no reason not to. And I have a feeling that she doesn't have much interaction with people who are something a little more than mundane." The house was gorgeous, as was the land it sat on, but it was still set back from the world, felt like its own little slice of earth, separate and divided. "She fought viciously to claim her territory, back when she moved out here," Peter goes on to say. "I'd hazard a guess that no one is quite willing to take her on. And apart from someone as idiotic as our Stiles, who'd go challenge her on her own grounds?" </p>
<p>Stiles grumbles, says, "Not an idiot," and lifts one hand to swat, half-heartedly at Peter. "But you're not wrong. She doesn't get out much. No friends, really." </p>
<p>Peter thinks about the shadows in her house, the deep, unnatural darkness twining in her hair and around and through her jewellery. He thinks about the way she spoke of Stiles' claim, over the phone, and the way she looked and smelled around Stiles, all fondness and trust, teasing affection and willing submission, casual and accepting in a way that spoke of comfort and not a little love. </p>
<p>"Demon summoners have a reputation," Peter says, "for a reason. A <i>good</i> reason. After having met her -- she's bonded to Stiles through contract and claim, which makes her part of our pack." Derek's face shows displeasure at the thought and Stiles tilts his head, opens one Spark-white eye and gives Derek a look that has Derek settling, though mulishly. "I don't like her," Peter admits. "But I don't have to. We don't have to bond with her; she's ours through Stiles and I'm perfectly content to leave it at that." </p>
<p>Derek lets out a deep breath. "That makes me feel better," he admits. "I don't know that I'd ever feel comfortable <i>feeling</i> her, not the way I feel the rest of you. I can't even -- I mean, what would a bond with someone like her even feel like?" </p>
<p>"Burnt raisins, mostly," Stiles says. Peter blinks, Derek frowns, and Stiles sighs, arches his neck to look at Peter. "I mean. You know, like, oatmeal raisin cookies, when the raisins are on top and they get burned more than baked? Kinda squishy but not in a good way?" </p>
<p>"And <i>you</i> have a bond with her," Derek says. "You're okay with -- burnt raisins?" </p>
<p>Stiles settles back down, scent all warm and pleased, icebox pie and mint tea and sugar, so much sugar. "It's a taste I seem to have acquired," he says, closing his eyes again, snuggling back into the couch, turning his head to rub his cheek against Peter's thigh. He reminds Peter of large cats, danger coded into every inch of skin and bone and muscle but liquid in the afternoon sun, coiled loose and easy but a moment away from striking -- or dragons, treacherously greedy and able to incinerate even stone with their breath but contented by their hoard and solitude. The image dispels, though, as Stiles adds, thoughtfully, "Still prefer peanut butter cookies, though. Chocolate chip, too. Pizzelle dipped in caramel. Snickerdoodles. Sugar --" </p>
<p>"Okay," Peter says, clapping a hand over Stiles' mouth, getting a muffled complaint and then a tongue licking the length of his hand. "When you start listing cookies, it's time for bed." </p>
<p>Stiles makes another sound, this one displeased, and this time he bites Peter's hand -- not hard, but enough to sting. Peter moves his hand but before Stiles can crow about his victory, Peter flicks him on the forehead. Stiles opens his eyes, glares at Peter, though the glare's softened when he yawns. </p>
<p>"Meanie-pants," Stiles mutters, sitting up, rubbing at his eyes. </p>
<p>"You do have school tomorrow," Peter points out, "no doubt following an interrogation from the other school-aged members of our pack." </p>
<p>Stiles groans but he starts sliding his feet out from under Derek. He stands up, stretches, and tells them both, "I'm gonna go brush my teeth. Don't stay up too late, <i>old folks</i>." </p>
<p>Derek rolls his eyes and Peter mock-growls. Stiles waves them both off and heads upstairs. When the faucet turns on and the muted sound of Stiles humming as he brushes his teeth hits them, Derek looks at Peter and asks, "What was it <i>really</i> like?" </p>
<p>Peter shies away from the memory; even with the worst of it papered over by the Spark's magic, even with the comfort of his pack bonds thrumming in the back of his consciousness, the thought of what he saw <i>hurts</i>. "Nothing I can describe," Peter says. "Inhuman. Alien. Evil in a way that I thought was just -- was story. I never imagined anything could exist and be that -- wrong." </p>
<p>"And -- you <i>honestly</i> believe that it was accidental?" Derek asks. </p>
<p>"I do," Peter says. "For a moment, I wondered if she engineered the whole thing. Not that she told her summons to come after me, but that she left them loose enough to do so, to see what would happen. I wouldn't put it past anyone to test me. But I don't think she'd do that to Stiles. She apologised and she meant it, and I think --." He stops there, shakes his head, takes a deep breath. "I think she depends on Stiles for her sanity and she's not the type to do anything to threaten that. She's much too smart. Without Stiles -- I don't know. But yes, I honestly believe it was an accident." </p>
<p>Derek exhales, takes all of that in. "And Stiles destroyed them. The ones that came after you. <i>How</i>?" </p>
<p>Peter smiles, just a small thing, but there; seeing it, smelling the savage pleasure threading through Peter's scent, evidently calms Derek even further because he relaxes, his own scent evening out into a simple sort of curiosity. "The Spark," he says, simply. "Light shattered the darkness apart and then burned it out entirely. Quickly, too. The demons, the ones that were left, they -- they screamed." He looks down at his hands. "Stiles was furious. Beyond words. He -- they apologised to him, Derek. He made them <i>scream</i>." </p>
<p>It takes a moment but Derek finally nods, says, "Good. But you'll never convince me to meet her." </p>
<p>That makes Peter laugh. "If I have my way, none of us ever will. She belongs to Stiles; that's good enough for me. He'll keep her in line and we'll go to her defense if she ever needs it, but I have a feeling she'll be fine without us." </p>
<p>"Demon summoner," Derek says. "I should <i>hope</i> so." </p>
<p>"Come on, then," Peter says, patting Derek on the knee and standing up. "Bed. Sounds like Stiles is done in the bathroom." </p>
<p>Derek mutters something about overprotective alphas and mother-henning he doesn't need, but gets up as well, follows Peter upstairs. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>They both use the bathroom in turns, then crawl into bed. This time it's Peter in the middle, Stiles draped along his back, one hand under his head and the other clutching the waistband of Peter's pyjama bottoms. Derek curls into Peter and reaches out, tentatively tangling their hands together and relaxing when Peter squeezes his fingers in thanks. </p>
<p>Stiles falls asleep quickly, had already been halfway there as soon as they finished eating, and Peter wonders at the Spark, at how much power it takes to completely erase demons from existence, power he might not have after everything else he's done this week when he's still recovering from nearly fading back into magic. He wonders at the limits of a summoner's control, too, of motivations and claims and how much losing pack bonds might crack apart a person with the type of magic Mage Medina possesses, needing the level of grounding that Stiles mentioned in the ride back to Beacon Hills. He wonders about the Triple Alliance and Stiles' treaty with them as Derek's slowly falling asleep, lulled under by the rhythm of their heartbeats and their breathing. </p>
<p>He wonders about a lot of things and is still awake when Malia uses her key to let herself in shortly after midnight, creeping up the steps so quietly that neither Derek nor Stiles stir. She sheds her clothes, flows into her coyote so smoothly that Peter's honestly impressed, and jumps up on the bed, letting Peter stroke her a few times before she settles down into a ball at his feet, snout resting on one ankle. </p>
<p>She falls asleep soon enough and Peter closes his eyes, lets the sound of his pack, the feel of his bonds, ease him into rest. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>He dreams.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter 21</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peter wakes up gasping, covered in cold sweat. He brushes off Derek's panicked questions and avoids Malia as he throws himself off of the bed, scrambling for the bathroom. He makes it just in time to drop to his knees in front of the toilet before he starts throwing up, the sour burning tang of acid setting his throat on fire for bare seconds before his healing kicks in. Peter heaves, throws up again, and this time the taste of it makes him gag, spit up even more.</p>
<p>Derek's followed him and he kneels next to Peter, one hand low on Peter's back to draw out the pain, murmuring reassurances that go in one of Peter's ears and out the other. He feels Malia on his other side, standing up and unsure of what to do, though she's quick to fill a glass with water when Derek asks her to, coming back over and squatting next to him, offering him the glass. </p>
<p>He tests his stomach; he thinks he's done, so Peter takes the glass with a mutter of thanks, rinses out his mouth, spits into the toilet and leans on Derek, sipping carefully, as Malia flushes the toilet. </p>
<p>"Are you okay?" Derek asks, once Peter's caught his breath, once his heart rate has settled. </p>
<p>Peter shifts on his knees, looks over his shoulder and sees Stiles leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, gaze carefully neutral, bond suppressed and scent blocked off. "Yes," Peter says. His heart skips and he can tell that everyone's heard it, because Derek's scent grows thick with concern, Malia's with confusion, and Stiles' jaw clenches, chin tilting up just a little bit in defiance of whatever expression is written on Peter's face. "I'll be fine. It was just a bad dream." </p>
<p>Malia scoffs, says, "Bad enough to get you to puke like that? What was it about?" </p>
<p>Something in Stiles' frame goes hard, muscles tensing. He looks like he's preparing himself for condemnation, for judgment; his eyes flicker white, just for a moment, then Stiles locks the Spark down <i>hard</i>, until Peter can barely sense any of its power -- or that's what it feels like through the bond, which is already more shuttered than the feeling Peter woke up to on Tuesday. </p>
<p>"Necessity," Peter finally says, answering Malia's question in a way that makes her tilt her head in confusion. Derek narrows his eyes, follows Peter's gaze to Stiles. Peter looks away from Stiles, to Malia; he reaches out and places a hand on her neck, thumb stroking the soft skin underneath her chin. "I'm all right," Peter says, soft. "Take Derek and go back to bed, okay?" </p>
<p>When Peter looks back to the doorway, there's no one there. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>He goes downstairs, listening with half his attention as Derek and Malia go back to the bedroom. The wards block the noise of shifting pillows and blankets along with any conversation they might be having, but Peter hears the cadence of their heartbeats slowing as they must settle and get comfortable. He pauses on the steps, listening, lets the rhythm calm him, urge him downstairs to his mate. </p>
<p>By the time Peter gets to the kitchen, Stiles already has the kettle on to boil and two mugs set out. "I wasn't sure if you'd want chamomile to help calm you down or mint to settle your stomach," Stiles says. He's facing the stove, watching the kettle, and doesn't turn around to ask Peter, "Preference?" </p>
<p>"Mint," Peter says. </p>
<p>Stiles nods, gets two tea bags out of one of the boxes on the counter, drops one into each mug. His shoulders are high, tight; Peter can't get a read on Stiles' chemosignals but he can smell exhaustion and the strain of clenched muscles. When he looks, he sees Stiles gripping the edge of the counter, knuckles white. It reminds Peter of the way Stiles clenched his hands around the chair in the sheriff's office and he balks, feels his stomach drop at the thought that Stiles is as upset now as he was then. </p>
<p>"I dreamt of the Winterlands," Peter says, once the silence has dragged on for a couple minutes. "Did I tell you, I was confused when you said you went there, rather than the Summerlands? It made sense when you told me about Lydia, when you told <i>her</i> about Mab. But -- have you ever wanted to go visit the Summer Court? Meet Titania?" </p>
<p>Stiles turns around abruptly, leaning against the counter and giving Peter a tight smile that's more a show of teeth than anything else. "I want to," he says. "But there comes a point when like calls to like in a way that can't be ignored." </p>
<p>Peter frowns. "You think -- if you went, you think you wouldn't leave?" </p>
<p>"It wouldn't be the first time a Spark went into the Summerlands and never came out again," Stiles says. Peter shakes his head; he doesn't remember hearing that legend, doesn't know what Stiles is talking about. "There was one of us a couple thousand years ago that went into faerie," Stiles says. "She had claimed an air elemental as her -- mate, I guess, and wanted to show her -- everything. They went to the Winter Court first, to meet Mab. When they went to Summer, it -- well. The elemental went mad, quickly, and fled back to Winter, and the Spark stayed in Summer, and they both ended up dying horribly." Stiles' gaze is distant, like he half-remembers it happening, like he was there -- like he was one of them. "It was agony, the separation, and their magics bled into the lands, tainted it, tainted the Courts. The Courts went to war and the Spark and her mate were both so twisted up and in pain that they ended up shattering their magic against each other. The elemental died and the Spark begged Death to come, but it couldn't find its way into the Summerlands and the Spark was too insane to find a way out."</p>
<p>"What happened?" Peter asks, quiet, as the kettle starts to whistle. </p>
<p>Stiles looks at him, meets Peter's gaze, lips curled in some paroxysm of maddening grief, before he turns. "The Spark burned out," Stiles says, picking up the kettle and turning off the burner. He pours water into the mugs, sets the kettle back down. "Well. Not out, not entirely. Maybe it would be more accurate to say that the Spark burned down to eternal twilight. She was too powerful to die, too crazy to bother with the physical. That's how the Shadowlands were created. When she burned down, she burned a new land into existence. It's the only place in faerie where Death lingers." Stiles brings the cups to the counter, sets one down in front of Peter, says, quietly, "Some call it Death's home. Apparently it never stops raining and every drop tastes of salt-water, like tears." He taps his fingers against his mug. "They say that you can still hear her scream when it goes quiet."</p>
<p>And that's the land of Morrigans and banshees, of twilight's riders and wisps -- that's the land that Lydia is tied to, by blood and breath. Peter wonders if there's anything about that in the scroll Stiles gave her or the books Derek has. </p>
<p>Peter picks up his mug, takes a sip and lets the wolf's healing take care of the burn he gets on his tongue, on the roof of his mouth, halfway down his throat. "You said you only met one of the fae," Peter says. "I saw more than one in the dream." </p>
<p>"I wasn't lying," Stiles says, bite of anger in his voice at the implicit accusation. "I told you we only met with one of the Court. I didn't tell you we only <i>saw</i> one." He pauses, looks down into his mug, bites his bottom lip. "The fae are -- beautiful," Stiles says, tone gone soft again. "Inhumanly beautiful. But it makes them arrogant, and that arrogance bleeds over into everything else. Their beauty's only skin-deep; underneath that, they're all cruel and capricious and --" </p>
<p>"Powerful," Peter says, interrupting. "Which is why they were banished to fairie and guardians were set up to watch the doors to their realm. I assume you were -- intrigued by their magic?" </p>
<p>Stiles' mouth quirks up on one side as he gives voice to a tiny laugh, more of a punched-out breath than a true laugh, but it's more amusement than Stiles has shown since Peter woke up. "They certainly thought I would be," Stiles says. He takes a sip of his tea and winces, Peter thinks, at the heat. "Thought they'd be able to use it to enthrall me and convince me to stay. They didn't get close enough to ask." </p>
<p>It's going to be a while before Peter gets the dream out of his mind. Stiles and Mage Medina, standing in the middle of a tundra, flat ground covered in snow reaching out for hundreds of miles around them, sky the colour of a January full-moon midnight, air so crisp that even the dream-memory of it burned Peter's lungs. Strings of ice danced through the air, thin like gossamer, glittering in the reflected light of snowflakes hanging still in the sky, and Stiles and Medina in the centre of it, watching as a dozen different types of Unseelie approached from every direction. They surrounded Stiles, layered their magics together in a web that they used to circle Stiles and the mage, hunting him by attempting to use his own curiosity against him. </p>
<p>Stiles hadn't fallen for it. He'd destroyed them all before they got close enough to even speak a word. The Winterlands, so captivating and alien in their cold and frost and snow and ice, their howling wind and their sky a thousand shades of blue and black, and Stiles unleashed the Spark in a maelstrom of light and heat and sun and fire, burning it all away in a brilliant scattering sky-shot explosion of Summer.  </p>
<p>The fae had burned to a crisp -- slowly, screaming and howling in pain, pleading for mercy that never came -- and then even their ashes had burned up, forming into a dozen precious stones, garnet and opal and chalcedony, obsidian and diamond and lapis lazuli, as the land around them wailed in agony at such an invasion of Summer. </p>
<p>Mab came to them, then, to Stiles and Medina, and the rage on her face was -- pure horror. Her eyes had gone ebony in fury, the skin over her sharp cheekbones cracked and gave birth to trickles of black blood that froze on the pale ice of her and formed drops of onyx, stalagmites began shrieking their way out of the ground, the sky glittered silver with boulders of snow instead of flakes. But then she'd paused, read the magic still arcing through the air, and -- laughed. She'd laughed, when she realised, and the sound echoed out for miles and miles and miles, bouncing back and echoing off of nothing, sky clearing and icicles melting only to freeze a layer over the scorched barren wasteland left by Stiles' Spark. </p>
<p>She'd <i>laughed</i> and gathered up the gems with a wave of her hand, taking them over to Stiles and dumping them in his palms. She'd dismissed it all with a casual, "The land will heal and my subjects paid for their gambit. Keep their essence; I have no use for it. Come, Spark, and let us treat." </p>
<p>Mab had laughed but Stiles had <i>smiled</i>. He'd smiled and let the gems drop to the ground, casually crushing them under his heel as he walked away, with Mab, to the centre of the Winterlands and her Court. </p>
<p>It's that smile that had Peter waking up, gasping, and the feel of shattering stones under his feet had propelled him to the bathroom to throw up. </p>
<p>He loves Stiles. Usually that would be enough to calm him. Usually the claim would be enough to reassure him. Usually knowing that Stiles had all that power and that he'd bring it to bear on behalf of the pack against their enemies would make him smile. Now, in the dark, quiet hours of the early morning, it just makes him -- he's not sure. Stiles, the power Stiles holds, is <i>terrifying</i>. Fairie is old, centuries upon millennia of magic layered upon each other; and the ease with which Stiles laid waste to the land, like he didn't even have to think about it, like it was a response as natural as breathing, scares Peter. </p>
<p>And to think, he was <i>pleased</i> that Stiles lost control around him only hours ago. </p>
<p>"If you want to dissolve the mate bond," Stiles says, sounding distant, cold like the dream-memory frost of the Winterlands, "I understand." </p>
<p>"I don't," Peter says. He lifts his mug to his lips, goes to take a sip and realises that, at some point, he's already finished his tea. He sets the mug down, a little harder than he should, and consciously makes an effort to let go of it, to let feeling back into his fingers with needle pinpricks as he lays his hands out flat on the counter. "I don't want to break the bond. I just -- how am I supposed to -- Stiles, you're so much <i>more</i> than we are. How can you even  --" </p>
<p>He stops there, trails off, and thank <i>god</i> he's so aware of Stiles, because otherwise, the hand that covers his on the counter would have made him flinch and what that would've done to Stiles, Peter doesn't want to think about. "I've had months with the Spark," Stiles says. He sounds exhausted. "But I've had years being me. I'm not more than anyone else on this planet. I'm just -- I'm just me, Peter. The magic is -- if I could give it all up, I would. In a heartbeat, I wouldn't have to think about it, I'd let it go and I wouldn't miss one iota of it." </p>
<p>Peter exhales long, uses the time to think about how to word what he wants to say, eventually realises he's too tired to pretty it up. "I love you," he says. "I know you want to stay here, that you want to -- be safe, I suppose, with the pack, but the more I see what you're capable of, what you're meant to do, to <i>be</i>, the more I feel like keeping you here in Beacon Hills, tied to me and the pack, it's -- wrong. I feel like I'm doing everyone a disservice by keeping you with me -- a disservice to you most of all. I know you don't want to rule, Stiles, but you have so much magic that -- it feels like hiding. It feels like you're just resisting the idea of wielding the Spark because you're afraid of it now and sometimes I think -- I'm just afraid that someday you'll wake up to all the potential and you'll want to use it and you'll realise that I <i>kept</i> you here when I should've -- when it would have been better to let you -- fly." He laughs a little, a choking sound, and says, "You have wings. When your Spark manifests, it comes in <i>wings</i>. Who do I think I am to clip them the way I have?" </p>
<p>There's a flare of something through the bond, too much and there-and-gone too quickly to decipher, and Stiles sighs, sips his tea and makes a face at it. He sets the mug down, says, "You're an idiot," and looks up from the counter to meet Peter's eyes for the first time in long moments. "You're <i>mine</i>, wolf. If I ever felt like I wanted to leave -- which I can't ever see happening, but say it does -- you think I wouldn't just take you with me?" </p>
<p>Peter blinks back tears, lets them swim across his vision before they dissipate and he can swallow them down again. "You're too loyal for anyone to consider you a sociopath." </p>
<p>The smile that crosses Stiles' lips is small but achingly precious. "Primal things," Stiles reminds him. "Instinctive things. And what's more instinctive than clinging to something -- some<i>one</i> -- you need?" He shifts, reaches for Peter's empty mug, and says, "No, Peter. Sorry. You're stuck with me. Even if you wanted to break the mate bond and rescind your bite, you'd still be mine, still have my claim written all across your soul." </p>
<p>"You'll never let me go?" Peter asks, lightly, and doesn't try to hide how pleased that thought makes him. The power he saw Stiles display in the Winterlands terrifies him down to marrow, yes, but there was another lesson to be learned from the dream. Peter also saw the way Medina stood there, next to Stiles, safe in the shelter of his magic. She's a demon summoner and drawn to the darkness, but she stood in the maelstrom of Summer unreleased, untamed, and wasn't so much as sunburnt at the end of it. She came away from the confrontation with a dozen fae unharmed, she met Mab and dined at the queen's table. She walked into fairie at Stiles' side and came right back out again.</p>
<p>"Nope," Stiles says. He dumps out the teabags into the garbage, sets the two mugs in the sink, and turns to look at Peter. "Now. Think you can get back to sleep?" The thought of going back upstairs and tangling in with Derek and Malia doesn't sit right with Peter, not after the quiet sanctuary of an early-hours and soul-deep talk with his mate. Stiles huffs out a breath and points out, "Your couch is pretty comfy." </p>
<p>Peter glances at him, sees Stiles grinning back with Spark-white eyes and the subtle glow that Peter now realises is a sign of Stiles' emotional state, yes, but also his control over the Spark, how much freedom his magic is given and how it's allowed to express itself. </p>
<p>"Sounds good," Peter says. "You get the blanket, I'll get the lights?" </p>
<p>Stiles nods. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>The two of them curl up together on the couch, Peter spooning around Stiles, keeping one hand pressed to Stiles' stomach, underneath Stiles' shirt. It takes a while for Stiles to relax, to snuggle back into Peter, but he does eventually. </p>
<p>"You're not scared of me?" Stiles asks, barely loud enough for Peter to hear. "You're not disgusted by what I've done?" </p>
<p>"You've survived, Stiles," Peter says. "I'll never be disgusted by that." </p>
<p>Stiles makes a noise, tilts his head down, says, "I could've stopped them without destroying them. I could've found a way that left them alive at the end of it. It wasn't survival that made me flare like that." </p>
<p>Peter hums, scratches his fingernails over Stiles' skin, light but there, enough to feel. "Not survival, no," he says. "And you probably could have stopped them in a different manner. Why didn't you?" </p>
<p>"I don't know." </p>
<p>Peter digs his nails in a little deeper, says, "Lie. I heard your heart skip so you weren't even trying to hide it. Tell me the truth. Why did you destroy them?" </p>
<p>It takes Stiles a long time to answer, time when Peter's imagining all the options running through Stiles' mind, all the half-truths and lies that he might choose to come back with, what the thing he says will mean, really, whether or not Stiles will actually answer. He does, though, and the words make Peter's heart skip a beat. "Because I -- it felt <i>good</i>," Stiles says. He sounds disgusted with himself, smells like rotten things, dead things, drowned and waterlogged, covered in silt and coughing up dirt. "Letting the Spark go felt so good. I couldn't -- by the time I realised I let loose too much, it was -- they were gone. I couldn't stop it." </p>
<p>"You didn't want to," Peter guesses. </p>
<p>"They deserved it," Stiles says. His tone's gone darker. "They came after me and Solé. We were promised safe passage and they thought to bind me like I was nothing more than some human with a small gift of magic. They thought they could snare me and keep me, make me their slave and twist my mind until I chose to stay of my own free will. They wanted to keep me from you, Peter, and take me for their own." </p>
<p>Down deep inside, the wolf bares its teeth in a silent snarl. Peter holds Stiles tighter and his voice, when he whispers, might be low but it's still vicious, cold with fury. "I'm glad you killed them, then," he says. He hadn't realised what the fae were trying to do, too caught up on the Spark's burning desolation to think beyond terror and awe, but now that Stiles has put it into words, he gets it. He <i>understands</i>. "Anyone else that tries to come between us, you do the same thing to them," he tells Stiles. "Burn them to dust." </p>
<p>Stiles lets out a laugh, a quiet thing that's really more of a forceful exhale, but Peter hears it, hears Stiles says, "Aye-aye, alpha." </p>
<p>Peter growls, squeezes Stiles a little tighter, and says it again. "To <i>dust</i>, Stiles." </p>
<p>Stiles covers Peter's hand with his, pats once, twice, then leaves it there, and the two fall asleep, minutes or hours later, Peter's not sure. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Peter wakes up the next morning to the sound of Malia thumping down the stairs, hollering at Stiles to wake up. Stiles groans and Peter laughs; it's too early for this and he's not a morning person, but something about the way his daughter and his mate interact, about how excited Malia is to wake Stiles up and how utterly recalcitrant he is at being woken up, is just sickeningly amusing. </p>
<p>"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," Stiles mutters. "You've signed up for a lifetime of this." </p>
<p>"Somehow," Peter says, dryly, "I think I'll find a way to deal." </p>
<p>Stiles sits up, rubs his eyes as he turns and looks at Peter. "We good?" he asks. </p>
<p>Peter gives Stiles a smile, reaches up and picks a bit of crust from the ends of Stiles' eyelashes. "Yes," he says. "Now go get ready. I'll get a snack for you and Malia. And remember: it's Friday." </p>
<p>The noise Stiles lets out is completely pornographic and has Peter's eyes flashing red, the wolf instantly awake and focused on its mate. "Friday," Stiles says, closing his eyes and smiling wide. "Peter, you say the sexiest things. Mm. <i>Friday</i>." Stiles opens his eyes, gives Peter a considering look, and stands up, stretching as he asks, "What d'you think the odds are that we could carve out a few hours of alone-time this weekend?"</p>
<p>"Pretty good," Derek grumps, coming down the stairs, "if you both keep smelling like <i>that</i>. Ugh. Disgusting." </p>
<p>Stiles laughs, leaves, and Peter twists to watch him go; the sleep pants Stiles is wearing are thin, hang dangerously low on his hips, and Peter wants to pull them down and <i>bite</i>. He's almost on the verge of doing so, chasing Stiles upstairs and debauching him so thoroughly that even two showers wouldn't be enough to make him presentable, but Malia plops down on top of Peter's legs and pokes Peter in the cheek. </p>
<p>"I like that you have a strong bond, but Derek's right," she says. "It is kind of icky. Sorry," and she doesn't sound apologetic at all. </p>
<p>Peter groans, says, "Ungrateful pack," and doesn't mean it at all. Judging by the way Derek snorts and Malia laughs again, they both know it. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Derek gets a pot of coffee brewing and Peter pokes his head in the fridge, frowns when he says, "It's going to have to be breakfast sandwiches, I think, if you don't want to be late for school." He glances over his shoulder, looks at Malia, and says, "Or I could give you some money to stop somewhere."</p>
<p>"Stiles likes the coffee shop by the college," Malia says. She considers that, adds, approvingly, "They do these wrap things in the mornings with ham, bacon, <i>and</i> sausage. I'm not a big fan of the wrap part. It gets gummy and stuck in my back teeth. But it's worth it."</p>
<p>"I'll find my wallet," Peter says. </p>
<p>As Peter's in the living room, looking for where he left his wallet the night before after paying for pizza, he hears Malia add, "Stiles made me try this wheat bread once. It had seeds in it. That was weird -- okay, I guess, but still weird. I just don't see the point of bread." </p>
<p>"Some people really like bread," Derek says, laughing a little as he takes down travel mugs and gets out cream and sugar. "I've never been a big fan, either. It's a carb thing, I think; shifters just prefer protein."  </p>
<p>Peter finds his wallet and takes out a couple twenties. He heads back towards the kitchen and the smell of fresh coffee, gives the money to Malia and says, "Make sure Stiles gets something more than just a quiche or a scone, okay? I know he's going to want to pick something up for Lydia and Danny but he needs to eat, too." </p>
<p>Stiles, galloping down the stairs, calls out, "I do <i>not</i> need fattening up like some kind of lamb for the slaughter, Peter!" </p>
<p>Derek turns, gives Stiles a once-over when Stiles gets to the kitchen, standing next to Malia and balancing against her as he puts on his shoes. "You're down at least fifteen pounds from when I met you," Derek says, "and you were a skinny little thing with a bad haircut back then. At least the hair's better." He frowns, adds, "Fashion sense hasn't gotten any better, though. Are you wearing Peter's shirt from yesterday? That needs to be washed."</p>
<p>"I like wearing Peter's clothes," Stiles grumbles. "I like having his scent with me. And like you're one to talk about fashion sense, Mr. I-only-wear-jeans-and-henleys-and-I'm-married-to-my-leather-jacket." </p>
<p>Peter watches as Malia puts a hand on Stiles' waist, steadying him as he wavers. "You've been wearing my clothes consistently for the last week," he tells Stiles. "Maybe I should just get new things for me and give you all the old ones." He grins as Malia leans over and sniffs Stiles' shirt, rears back with her nose wrinkled. "Has McCall said anything about Stiles' clothes recently?" </p>
<p>"He said he missed the plaid," Malia says. "And he sniffed once or twice. But I don't think he figured it out." </p>
<p>"Oh, no," Stiles says, gently contradicting Malia as he stands on both feet again, stretching and cracking his neck, readjusting the way Peter's shirt hangs off him, pulling it back up where it's sliding down one shoulder. "It took him a couple days but he knows. He's just not sure what to do about it." </p>
<p>Derek glances at Peter, Peter glances back, but neither of them say anything. McCall is Stiles' to deal with and Peter doesn't know how Stiles has chosen to approach the mess that the true alpha presents. Of course, saying that, Peter hasn't done anything about Alan Deaton. He hasn't thought much of the druid at all since they drove back into Beacon Hills; there's just been too much going on and as long as Deaton stays quiet, they have time to deal with everything else. The wolf bares its teeth, disagreeing; it reflects that part of Peter that wants to get rid of such a threat to their mate instantly. It's the human side of him that reminds the wolf that their mate is a Spark and nothing on earth, now that he's ignited, can hurt him. </p>
<p>At least, Peter doesn't think so. He blinks, focuses on Stiles and asks, "Is there anything that can hurt Sparks the way mountain ash or wolfsbane or mistletoe hurts wolves?" </p>
<p>Stiles tilts his head to the side, gives Peter a thoughtful look. There's contemplation running through his scent, that and a slight hesitation, but he answers -- and honestly, too. "Yes," Stiles says, though he's quick to add, "In theory." </p>
<p>Derek, in the middle of filling up two thermoses with coffee, adding sugar and cream to Stiles' and sugar to Malia's, turns and asks, "In theory?" </p>
<p>"We -- Sparks, I mean -- figured it out millennia ago," Stiles says. "It was a rare combination to begin with, but the Sparks alive at the time hunted down every source and destroyed them or banished them to a different dimension. There's no way now." </p>
<p>"Sparks," Derek says, before Peter can press to know just <i>how</i> certain Stiles is that he's safe. "As in, plural. There can be more than one of you alive at the same time?" </p>
<p>Stiles gives Derek an unimpressed look. "We're not, like, the Highlander or something. Yes, there can be more than one Spark alive at a time." </p>
<p>Malia's the one to ask the question that Peter's thinking, probably the one Derek's thinking as well. "Is there more than one right now?" </p>
<p>"No," Stiles says. Peter feels relief soar in his gut, smells something much the same from Derek, though Derek's scent also contains a hint of disappointment. Derek hasn't had the dreams, though, hasn't <i>really</i> seen as much of the Spark as Stiles feels comfortable releasing, hasn't had to face down the closest thing to divinity that exists on their plane. "The one before me died back in the thirties or forties -- no, the early thirties," Stiles decides. He shrugs, then, and adds, "But even if there were, we don't -- we're not really -- it's complicated." </p>
<p>"Of course it is," Derek says.</p>
<p>Stiles huffs, says, "Not like -- it's hard to explain. We're not really -- it's not that we don't like each other, it's more like we don't really <i>care</i>. We care about those we choose, we care about our territory, but it's not -- it's not like pack. It's not even like shifters, where you respect or hate or like but there's always the potential for -- understanding? It's just -- apathy, I guess. It doesn't have to be, but that's kind of our default even with others like us. If another Spark was alive right now, I'd probably meet them and hash out where the limits of our territories are, where our spheres of influence touch, and we might have fun together, but we wouldn't be -- we <i>can</i> be family, some of them in the past have, but it's not a given that we -- it's just -- " </p>
<p>"It's complicated," Derek says, this time a little softer, as if seeing Stiles try and search for the words has convinced him that Stiles isn't pushing off an explanation, that it really is that difficult to try and put into words. "I think I get it. As much as I can, anyway." He glances at his watch and Derek makes a face, says, "You and Malia should get going if you don't wanna be late." </p>
<p>The wolf inside of Peter snarls at the thought of Stiles leaving. Derek's right, though, and Stiles has missed enough school. Malia, too -- Tate might not be so quick to let Malia sneak out at night if he's getting calls saying she's skipping classes. </p>
<p>"Tell Amanda I said hi," Peter says. </p>
<p>Stiles rolls his eyes but says he will, and he gives Peter a kiss, grabbing his coffee once Peter -- reluctantly -- lets him go. Malia scents Derek, then comes over to scent Peter, and gets her coffee before she wraps one hand around Stiles' wrist and tugs him towards the door. Stiles flails, grabs his backpack on the way, and turns back to tell Peter, "See you later; try to behave. Love you!" and then he's gone. </p>
<p>Peter can't help the laughter and even Derek's huff sounds vaguely amused. "I'm going back to bed," Derek says. "Malia kicks. You look like you could do with a few more hours, too." </p>
<p>Peter looks up at Derek, asks, "I look that bad?" </p>
<p>"Just tired," Derek tells him. "Though after yesterday and last night, I can't blame you." He looks around the kitchen, clearly thinks about breakfast, but ends up just flipping the switch on the coffee pot to turn it off. There's not much left, anyway; the tumblers that he filled for Stiles and Malia are large, almost ridiculously so, and swallowed up most of the pot. "We'll eat later," Derek says, half-asking, and Peter nods in agreement. </p>
<p>They go upstairs; Peter swings by the bathroom, Derek goes straight for the bed. When they're both comfortable, curled up with their fingertips touching on the pillow, Peter closes his eyes, lets the weight of a silent house and the closeness of his pack ground him, calm him. Peter yawns, asks, "What's on the agenda for later?" </p>
<p>Derek kicks him -- lightly, barely more than a tap, but enough, in combination with his scent, to express his displeasure. "The agenda for later is to be figured out later," he says. "You're exhausted, I'm tired. Right now, we should be thankful we don't have to go to school and we should get some rest while we have the chance. No doubt Stiles will be bringing a whirlwind home with him the second school lets out." </p>
<p>Peter chuckles; he can't argue with that and Derek knows it. "Fine," he says, and shifts, burying his face in a pillow that reeks of Stiles. The wolf wraps around the mating bond and Peter takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes. </p>
<p>Sleep comes quickly. This time, he does not dream.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Chapter 22</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The phone wakes Peter up. Derek groans, slams a pillow over his face, leaves Peter to roll over and answer without bothering to try and figure out who's calling him. </p>
<p>"Hello," he says, voice sounding sleep-tight, rasping. </p>
<p>"<i>Alpha Hale, this is Linda Macfie</i>." </p>
<p>Peter's instantly wide awake. Derek lowers the pillow, yawns silently as he listens to Peter saying, "Yes, Linda, good morning. What can I do for you?" </p>
<p>Linda laughs, says, "<i>It's good news, alpha, don't worry. The sheriff's station dropped off a package for me last night and your paperwork was inside. I've taken the liberty of going to the judge and filing the appropriate forms. He's willing to skip the waiting period; if you and Stiles can come in this afternoon, we'll be able to process your marriage license today</i>."</p>
<p>Peter's heart skips a beat and he says, before he can stop himself, "I haven't bought him a ring yet." </p>
<p>"<i>Buy a ring pop for today,</i>" Linda says. "<i>He'll love that just as much. Stop by my department; I'll take you to the judge and bear witness for you. It's the least I can do for Stiles.</i>" </p>
<p>She hangs up, then, and Peter stares down at his phone, wide-eyed and mind blank. Derek kicks him and Peter looks up, snarling, though the snarl subsides at the totally unimpressed look his nephew's giving him. Peter makes a face and Derek just says, "Text Stiles to let him know. One less thing to worry about in the middle of everything else. He'll appreciate that." </p>
<p>Right. Text Stiles. He can do that. </p>
<p><i>Parrish came through with the paperwork</i>, Peter texts. <i>Wanna get hitched after school</i>?</p>
<p>The reply comes back almost instantly and is just a massively long block of emojis and exclamation points.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Peter and Derek get up, go downstairs and scrape up brunch: bagels and cream cheese, eggs and sausage patties, strawberries and orange juice. It's mostly silent, Derek too focused on his food, Peter too focused on his bonds. The one to Stiles is vibrating with gleeful joy, though there's a little sadness behind it. Peter's not sure why, hopes it has nothing to do with how fast they went from proposal to marriage. He makes a mental note to ask Stiles later, wants to be sure that Stiles has no regrets and that, even though they're already mated and that's more important to both of them, they won't be starting off their married life with any hesitation on Stiles' side. Lydia, Danny, and Malia all feel focused, though there's some boredom from the first two and impatience from the latter; Peter sends them all a poke of happiness and feels -- through the bond -- the way Danny flinches at that. Peter wonders how much Lydia and Stiles have told Danny about pack bonds, about the way they anchor tight in strong packs, about how magic affects them, and decides that he really has wasted enough time pushing off Danny's education. </p>
<p>Derek goes up to shower while Peter cleans up the mess from their breakfast. He's trying to think of where he might be able to buy a ring pop as Linda suggested; the thought of pulling one out of his pocket at their wedding to surprise Stiles makes him smile. Stiles, he thinks, will throw his head back and laugh, show off the long lines of his neck, the bitemark Peter left on his throat that no one else can see. The kinds of grocery stores Peter shops at probably don't carry them -- he can't remember seeing them there, at least -- and he hasn't been in a drugstore since before the fire. By the time Derek's come back downstairs, dressed in clean but casual clothes, Peter's googled a few things and settled on three places to check. Six months ago, he would've never thought that's how he'd ever spend a morning and the thought makes him smile; this is so much better than anything he <i>ever</i> imagined. </p>
<p>Derek's not expecting any packages for the Jeep and the organiser he ordered from Home Depot won't be in until tomorrow, so he settles down on Peter's couch and curls up with one of the books that Stiles gave him on the fae, notebook at his side to jot down questions and comments. Peter goes upstairs and gets clean quickly, soon leaving the house with a wave that Derek halfheartedly responds to without looking up from the book. </p>
<p>He stops at the Walgreens close to the college, ends up buying two ring pops -- one blue raspberry, one cherry -- and then swings by the Drip House. It's late enough that Amanda's not behind the counter, her shift already over, but she's sitting at one of the tables, going through a stapled-together hand-out, thick hardback novel sitting next to a mug still steaming. She doesn't look up when Peter walks inside, but once he's picked up his standard americano, he makes his way over to her table and pulls out the chair opposite her. </p>
<p>"Peter!" she says, when she looks up from the papers, giving him a smile. "I saw Stiles this morning; he didn't mention you'd be stopping by. What're you doing out and about?" </p>
<p>"I was out running errands," he says, "and figured a little caffeine never hurt anyone. What are you working on?" </p>
<p>Amanda looks down at the novel and its accompanying stack of papers. "Book club," she says. "New book, new homework. We're due to read part one by next week and I wanted to get a head start." She picks up her mug, takes a sip as she leans back in her chair. "I usually get all the reading done during the weekend and then just do a refresher the day of; that works best with my schedule." She snorts, adds, "Gives me time to go through Rania's ridiculous packets. I swear, the woman was a professor in a previous life. I feel like she's grading all of us and keeping track somewhere."   </p>
<p>Peter gestures in question toward the book; when Amanda nods, Peter picks it up and scans the front and back. <i>Half of a Yellow Sun</i> -- he's never heard of this book or author before, but the famed and exclusive Beacon Hills Book Club isn't known for picking duds even though they rotate the choice of books between all the members. He makes a mental note of the author for when things settle down -- maybe a year from now, he thinks to himself with a mental snort.</p>
<p>"How did book club go last night?" he asks, handing Amanda the book. "Did you share the news?" </p>
<p>Amanda's eyes light up. "I <i>did</i>," she said. "Do you have a date yet?" </p>
<p>Peter grins, can't help it. "This afternoon," he says. "We're going in front of a judge today. As for a proper ceremony -- maybe this summer. Stiles and I haven't made a decision on that yet." </p>
<p>"I wish you could wait," Amanda says. She takes a sip of her drink -- it smells like chai, heavy on the cardamom and cloves -- and taps her fingers on the table. "I know you can't, though. It just sucks." Peter narrows his eyes, tilts his head in question, and Amanda sighs. "Deputy Cordova joined the book club a month ago. She's kept us up to date on the rumours down at the sheriff's station. When we put that together with what Joel's been telling Rania and what I've seen and heard here and the gossip coming out of the courthouse, what a couple of the others have said, well. You don't have to be a genius to see why everything's happening so fast right now, when you and Stiles have been dancing around each other for months. Is --," and she pauses, smells of indecision, as if she's not sure what to say or how to say it, whether she should or not. </p>
<p>"Ask," Peter says, gentle. "If I don't want to answer, I won't, but go ahead and ask." </p>
<p>Amanda gives him a smile, a small one, something almost sad about it. "Is there no way to make the sheriff see how stupid he's being? Nothing we can do to get him to realise what he's done? It's just -- we all agree that he's been a good sheriff; isn't there something we can do to get him being a good father back on his radar?" </p>
<p>Peter exhales, takes a sip of his coffee as well, using the time to swallow down the growl at the thought of Stiles going back to <i>that man</i>, of anyone feeling <i>sorry</i> for him when the sheriff has brought all of this upon himself. "He's had enough chances," Peter says, finally, trying to keep his tone even, to hide the pure rage that has his wolf snarling for blood. "He kicked Stiles out and gave him an ultimatum that Stiles will never agree to. So we're taking steps, and you're right, it's not fair that something so important, so -- so joyous, has to be rushed because of the sheriff's stupidity. But Stiles agrees with me that we need to act before the sheriff does anything and this is the best way. Besides," he says, attempting to find some levity in the situation, "now I get the tax benefits, just like you've been harping on for months." </p>
<p>That makes Amanda smile, relax a little. "Tax benefits," she drawls. "Right. That's the only reason you're doing this, sure. Has nothing to do with that bite mark I saw on Stiles' neck this morning and the way the girl with him kept teasing him about the other bites and bruises apparently scattered all over his body." </p>
<p>Peter's blood runs cold. Stiles said that no one else would be able to see that mark, that it was just for Peter, a sign to satisfy the wolf's instincts to have access to their mate's throat, showing just how clearly Peter <i>did</i>, even if it was only once. He doesn't say anything about it to Amanda, though, doesn't ask her any questions. Instead, he stands, grabs his coffee and takes one careful step back from the table. She looks puzzled, even as Peter's saying, "Nothing at all," lightly, casually, though with none of the previous fondness in his tone. She smells confused, something rearing up in the bottom of her scent, like sand being churned up by strong waves and hurricane-force wind. "Good to see you," he says, taking another step backwards, not willing to show her his back, not yet. "Take care." </p>
<p>Another step and then Peter's out of reach, safe to turn and walk away, so he does. He leaves quickly but not hurried, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that would set off any wards or warnings, but he doesn't breathe until he gets into the car and has the doors locked. </p>
<p>He's always wondered if there was something a little more than mundane about Amanda, has Derek's words about her scent rattling around in the back of his mind -- but now he knows. If she can see through whatever Spark magic is supposed to be hiding the sign of Peter's possession on Stiles' throat, she has to be something other than human. </p>
<p>Peter sets the coffee cup down in one of the cupholders and takes out his phone, texting Stiles, <i>Amanda's something more than human. Do you know what she is?</i></p>
<p>He glances up, decides to leave rather than wait for an answer. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Peter goes straight back to the townhouse, taking his by-now cold cup of coffee inside along with the bag from CVS. Derek glances up, pauses when he takes in the way Peter's holding himself, the way Peter's scent swirls around him. </p>
<p>"What happened?" Derek asks, starting to close the book and shift to stand up. </p>
<p>Peter gestures for Derek to stay where he is. He drops the cup and bag off on the kitchen counter, kicks off his shoes and settles onto the couch, tapping his phone against his thigh. "Nothing," he says. Derek scoffs and Peter says, "I saw Amanda. She said something that caught me off-guard. I need to talk to Stiles about it later, that's all. How's the book coming along?" </p>
<p>Derek's scent turns indecisive as if he's trying to decide whether or not to push, but he eventually settles down and goes along with Peter's change of subject. He shrugs, leans back in the chair. "Slowly," he admits. "The first chapter's an introduction to the Shadow Court and the types of fae that make it up. Nothing too specific -- I think that'll come later -- but enough to --." He trails off, sighs, and this time when Derek closes the book, Peter doesn't stop him. "Sometimes it's hard to remember that this is Lydia's birthright. It doesn't seem like -- it seems too harsh. Too --." </p>
<p>He stops, shakes his head, and Peter says, gently, "Too alien. Beautiful on the surface but deadly cold underneath." </p>
<p>Peter's dream might have been about the Winterlands, not the Shadowlands, and Stiles' magic may be kin to Summer rather than Shadow, but Peter's dreamed of the fae. He knows, all too well, what kind of inhuman allure they possess, their magics so integral to their very beings that wielding it is as natural as breathing. For someone born human, like Lydia, to be told that she's one of them, and for those around her to accept that -- it's going to be difficult. Peter thinks that he might have it the easiest because he's having to come to terms with the Spark, and what is a fae in the face of a Spark's brilliance? </p>
<p>"Lydia's vicious," Peter says. Derek's scent rears in instant argument, but Peter holds up one hand. "Not an accusation, nephew. Just a statement of fact. She's vicious and conniving and not above pretense and manipulation. You know I see those as all good things, so long as she uses those skills on behalf of the pack rather than inside of it."</p>
<p>"She's not like that," Derek says, though even he must hear how weak he sounds, trying to argue against fact. "Not as cruel as you make her out to be." </p>
<p>Peter reaches down, pulls off his socks and shifts, curling up with his legs under him, leaning against the armrest. He aches to have Stiles with him, to wrap one arm around Stiles and pull him close, to be able to lean down and bury his nose in the scent of Stiles' hair and skin. The pull to his mate, the yearning for him, hasn't lessened any since their mating, he's just been able to ignore it in favour of other things, most of the time. It's hard now, though, his wolf on edge because of Amanda, his nephew upset, the thought of what Lydia might become, eventually, in the back of his mind. Hard, in the face of all of this, to not <i>long</i> for Stiles, for the smell of his Spark and the comfort of his smile. </p>
<p>"She pretended to be less intelligent than she is for years," Peter says, ruthlessly pushing the need for his mate down deep. "She manipulated those around her into believing she was nothing more than arm candy and then she ruled her high school, even as a <i>freshman</i>. She's cut into all of us with her words, she's used every inch of knowledge she has as leverage when it suits her, and she's somehow convinced humans, wolves, and hunters alike that she's something to be protected, rather than feared. No, Derek; she's already fae where it counts and it'll only go deeper the more of her talents she unlocks. She'll be ready for the Shadow Court when she decides to face it. Pretending otherwise only does her a disservice." </p>
<p>"You make it sound like she's -- I don't know," Derek says. "Not the Lydia I know." </p>
<p>Peter hums, says, "She can be everything I said, and still be pack. All of those qualities I listed, those are hers, but she's soft when she wants to be. She's loyal. She's fierce in protection of those she considers her own and I have no doubt that, if needed, she'd turn all of her magic against those who attack the pack. People can be complicated, Derek, and the fae even moreso. What we show to outsiders isn't the same face we show to those we love and care for." </p>
<p>Derek gives Peter a mulish look and snaps, "Is that your experience with Stiles speaking?" Peter flinches and Derek's face drops, his scent floods with the brackish smell of apology. "Sorry, I -- I didn't mean that." </p>
<p>"Yes," Peter says, quietly, "you did. And you're not wrong, either." He looks down at his phone, still waiting for Stiles to text him back. "I'll warn you now: navigating a relationship with someone so different from us is not going to be easy. You're going to have work at it, every minute of every day." He looks up, then, meets Derek's eyes. "It's worth it, though. Even the painful parts are worth it." </p>
<p>"I don't know if -- what we are," Derek says. "Sometimes I wonder if she's just -- if things will change if Jackson comes back." </p>
<p>Peter tilts his head, considers his nephew and thinks back to every interaction he's witnessed between Derek and Lydia. "I don't think she's just using you as a placeholder, if that's what you're worrying about," he tells Derek, "or as some kind of rebound from Aiden. <i>He</i> was the rebound, I think, or some proof of something to herself or others. No, you're different. If she didn't care about you, she wouldn't be dancing around you. She would've taken what she wanted and left already. I can't speak to her thoughts, but -- for what it's worth, I think you're a good match." </p>
<p>Derek flushes, tips of his ears turning red along with spots high up in his cheeks and in the space between his eyes and eyebrows. He doesn't say anything but he smells like good things: candied lilacs and vetiver, happiness and pleasure. He nods, opens the book again, and Peter leaves him to it, going into the kitchen and taking out his laptop. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>An hour later, Peter's printing out copies of the alliance paperwork he and Satomi need to sign. He's thinking that he should go over this weekend, get it done and out of the way, and actually -- finally -- make a point of asking Satomi if she'd give his betas lessons in pack law. He gets an extra piece of paper out of the printer, sits at the counter and starts making a list of everything he needs to get done: Kira; a visit to Satomi; a boundary run of the wards and territory; maybe a conversation with Danny since Peter hasn't spent any one-on-one time with him. They have the trip to the courthouse this afternoon, Peter wants to spend at least half a day in bed with Stiles, and he's gotten a couple responses to his emails to architects and local contractors that he needs to reply to.</p>
<p>"Did you ever call Cora?" he asks Derek. </p>
<p>"Sent her an email," Derek replies. "Told her I wouldn't have time to come visit for a while and that things had changed here, but I was vague about it. Haven't heard back from her yet. Why?" </p>
<p>Peter draws a line down the centre of the paper, writes <i>Cora - email</i> on the other side. "Working on that list," he says. "Trying to get my thoughts in order." </p>
<p>He hears Derek get up, hears the quiet groan Derek lets out when he stretches and his shoulders pop; from what Peter assumes, Derek probably hasn't gotten up since he sat down, and that was a couple hours ago. Peter taps the end of the pen against the counter, adds <i>honeymoon????</i> and <i>Scott</i> to the right side of the paper, under the line for Cora. </p>
<p>Derek moves over to him and leans against him, looks over his shoulder. "You should probably add something about Parrish somewhere," Derek says. "Even if it's just to thank him for his help with the paperwork. If we're going to reach out to him about joining the pack, we should keep him in the loop now so he's at least a little familiar with us." </p>
<p>"Good point," Peter murmurs, and adds that to the left side of the paper, under <i>emails</i>. After a moment's thought, he adds <i>Stiles' contracts</i> to the right side, along with <i>Macfie meeting</i> and <i>assassins</i>.</p>
<p>"Jesus," Derek says, with feeling. "That's more shit than I realised." </p>
<p>Peter snorts, says, "The sad thing is, I'm not even done yet. But yes, it's a lot. And most of them will have to be dealt with as soon as possible." </p>
<p>Derek shakes his head, shifts a little so he can rest his hand on Peter's shoulder. It's a tentative touch, as if Derek thinks Peter's going to shrug him off, but Peter just reaches up and pats Derek's hand, stroking the smooth skin stretched over Derek's knuckles. "Where do we even start?" </p>
<p>"The only way out is through," Peter says. "So we're just going to have to buckle down and attack them all one-by-one." He glances over the list again, taps the end of the pen on the line that says <i>Satomi - contract</i>. "Do you have plans for this weekend? I was thinking that I could text Satomi and ask about visiting her Sunday morning. That takes care of the alliance and gives us a chance to ask her about starting lessons for all of you -- if you still wanted to go with me, of course." </p>
<p>"Sunday works," Derek says, so Peter makes a note of that. "What next?" </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>By the time they have a tentative plan for the next couple weeks, Stiles is out of school and on his way home. He texted to let Peter know that Malia's the only one with him; apparently Lydia's been roped into spending the evening with her mother and Danny has a meeting with Finstock to go over summer training plans for the lacrosse team and will then be heading straight to his grandfather's house after that, to interrogate him. Peter raises an eyebrow at that -- he hadn't thought Danny would move so fast; then again, Peter hasn't been privy to any conversations Danny's had with Stiles during the school day -- but doesn't mourn the idea that he'll be marrying Stiles in front of family, rather than pack. </p>
<p>He gives Derek the ring pops to hold onto; he wants that to be a surprise for Stiles. He also puts together a snack for Stiles and one for Malia, and by the time the food's ready, he can hear the rental car pulling into a parking spot in front of the house. A few minutes later, Stiles and Malia come clattering through the door. </p>
<p>Malia goes to Peter first, scents him and lets him scent her in return, then she sees the plate of ham-and-cheese roll-ups and boiled eggs split in half on the counter and goes to attack the snack with single-minded focus. She barely gives Derek an acknowledgement on her way to the kitchen, but once she's shoved half an egg in her mouth, she goes over to Derek and rubs her cheek on his shoulder, still chewing. </p>
<p>Stiles, for his part, at least takes off his shoes and dumps his backpack on the floor before getting to Peter. He bounces on his feet, hands clasped together in front of him, and says, eyes glittering with joy and spots of excitement colouring his cheeks, "You weren't teasing, right? The paperwork really came through?" </p>
<p>"Linda called me this morning," Peter says, "and she doesn't seem the type to joke, especially about something like this." </p>
<p>Stiles lets out a screech that makes Peter wince, then collides with Peter, wrapping arms around Peter's neck. He bumps his nose against Peter's then kisses Peter, hot and wet and hungry, for long enough that it takes at least three throat-clearings from Derek and one, "Oh, <i>gross</i>," from Malia before they break apart. </p>
<p>"Hey, alpha?" Stiles asks. Peter raises an eyebrow, trying to pull himself away from the need to fuck his mate, doing his best not to get lost in the mischievous glee of Stiles' scent, all sticky-sweet and sun-baked. "Wanna go get married?" </p>
<p>Peter smiles, then laughs. "After you eat something," he says. "But -- yes," and his tone switches, going from something amused to something yearning, hungry. "Yes, let's go make sure no one can take you away from me." </p>
<p>Stiles trails his fingernails across the back of Peter's neck and says, "No one ever will and I'll kill anyone who tries." He pauses, grinning, and leans in to bump Peter's nose with his one more time as he murmurs, "To dust, alpha." </p>
<p>That sounds perfectly reasonable to Peter. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Stiles takes his plate and a cup of coffee into the living room, sitting down on the couch with a groan. Peter listens to Malia as she recounts her day between mouthfuls, his eyes flicking over, every so often, to where Derek's joined Stiles. </p>
<p>When Malia takes a break to stuff another bite in her mouth, Peter takes the chance to point out, "You haven't said anything about your English class." </p>
<p>Malia rolls her eyes, chews and swallows, says, "English. <i>Ugh</i>," with feeling. She gulps down half a glass of milk and says, "It's fine. I mean, I don't think I'll have to go to summer school. My grade won't be <i>good</i> but it'll be good enough for that. And Stiles told me he'd work with me over the summer." She pauses, adds, "Kira did, too."</p>
<p>"Derek and I took some time this afternoon to make a list of things we need to deal with," Peter says, Malia gives him a questioning look; Peter nods at the piece of scrap paper still on the counter and gestures for her to give it a once-over. "I felt like things were slipping through the cracks so we started brainstorming." </p>
<p>"Kira's first," Malia says. She looks up, gives Peter a bright smile. "You're going to ask her?" </p>
<p>Peter nods. "Maybe this weekend if we find time, but probably next week. I'd like you to join me for that conversation. I have a feeling that she'll respond better to you than some of the others in our pack, and this way you can make sure I'm telling her what you think she needs to hear." </p>
<p>Malia straightens up, scent unfurling into something proud and happy, Peter thinks, to know that he trusts her with something like this, so different from killing but just as important. "Yes," she says. "But why wait until next week?" </p>
<p>"Derek and I are going to visit Alpha Ito on Sunday -- assuming she agrees to the time -- to sign the alliance," Peter says. "It's important to get that finalised. I need to spend some time with Danny this weekend. And I figure tonight's a wash. Once we get done at the courthouse, I'd like to go out for dinner to celebrate." </p>
<p>"There's a restaurant outside of town we could go to," Malia suggests, soft, after glancing at Stiles and Derek, the pair of them bent over Derek's notes. It looks like Stiles is drawing some type of diagram, isn't paying them any attention. "Stiles was talking about it to Lydia a few weeks ago when she mentioned her dad might be coming back to town to visit this summer. Garden something, I think. He said it was good and he smelled like he meant it." </p>
<p>Malia's most likely talking about Sage Garden -- a gorgeous little farm-to-table restaurant overlooking the preserve, small vineyard out back, nursery to the side. The menu probably wouldn't appeal to the idea of Stiles that many have, but Peter remembers the noise Stiles made eating his duck waffles, knows that Stiles has often hidden his true preferences as a method of self-protection, and Peter nods, slowly, as he thinks. "That's a brilliant idea, Malia," he says. She beams as Peter takes out his phone, checks the website and puts in a reservation request. He pulls up the menu, then, and scans it quickly before handing his phone to Malia. "No venison, but you might like the lamb." </p>
<p>Malia takes the phone, scrolls slowly as she reads. Peter rounds the counter, squeezes her shoulder, and goes over to where Stiles and Derek are. </p>
<p>"-- and then the paths here, here, and here," Stiles is saying, tapping the pen on a couple different spots of paper, "open up. I'm not too sure how they know when; it's something Maeve and Áine set up during the Third Convocation." He looks up, finally tearing his attention away from his explanation, and the action moves Stiles' head just enough to give Peter space to see something that looks vaguely map-ish, 'x's and stars scattered around other symbols that Peter can't guess the meaning of. "Hey," Stiles says to Peter, grinning up at him. "Time to go?" </p>
<p>Peter glances at the plate of food resting on the coffee table; he'd made a snack of pistachios and crackers and parmesan crisps for Stiles, and even though Malia powered through her food in a matter of minutes, Stiles' looks untouched. "You're not hungry?" Peter asks, turning his gaze back to Stiles, frowning at his mate. </p>
<p>Stiles looks sheepish, smells apologetic, but there's no hint of either in the bond. "Not really," he says, shrugging one shoulder. "Lunch was only a couple hours ago." </p>
<p>Decided to err on the side of caution, Peter doesn't press. He just nods, says, "Time to go, then," and narrowly misses getting hit in the side as Stiles flails his way off the couch. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>When they get to the courthouse and Peter parks, Derek and Malia, in the back, get out before he's even turned the car off. The pair of them start heading toward the main doors and Peter glances at Stiles, moving slowly as he undoes his seatbelt. </p>
<p>"Second thoughts?" Peter asks. </p>
<p>"Hmm? Oh -- absolutely not," Stiles says. Peter follows Stiles' gaze out of the front window, sees as Derek tugs Malia over to the side to let other people pass them, the pair waiting for Peter and Stiles to join them. Even from this far away, Peter can tell that Derek's eyebrows are furrowed, no doubt wondering what's taking them so long. "Just -- I don't know if they're going to say anything about dad signing off on the paperwork but not being here. Looks kinda awkward. And I --." </p>
<p>He trails off and Peter says, gently, "If you want to wait, we can." </p>
<p>Stiles finally looks at Peter, soft smile on his face, eyes flaring Spark-white just for a second. "Not at all," Stiles says. "Just -- trying to work through the ramifications." </p>
<p>Stiles is used to planning everything out six or seven steps in advance, moving in the background, one of the players behind the game, not an actual piece inside of it. Having others around to talk things through with must be a new feeling and it will probably take time for Stiles to get used to it. Peter knows, because he used to move the same way, always from the shadows, always the power <i>behind</i> the throne rather than the person <i>on</i> the throne. The fire, the coma, his death and subsequent resurrection, time spent in Derek's pack and then, after that, on the edges of McCall's -- that's all given him time to break away from his former patterns of behaviour but the life of a pack executioner, the mindset, is still deep inside his thoughts and instincts. It'll take time to get used to being alpha, to having a pack, to being surrounded by others who he can trust and rely on to see things he might miss -- it'll take time for him and Stiles both. </p>
<p>"From what I can tell," Peter says, "we have little to lose by moving. We have the support of those who matter and it keeps you out of your father's hands, which is the most important thing right now. Are you seeing a downside that I'm missing?" </p>
<p>Stiles gnaws on his bottom lip for a moment, eyes going distant as he thinks. "No," he finally says, focusing back on Peter. "It'll put us on some peoples' radars, good and bad, but we're only moving things up a few weeks or so, and you're right, this is the best way to make sure no one can take me away from you." He gives Peter a lopsided smile, admits, "Maybe I'm just not used to things actually going right for once. It feels weird and I don't trust it. But I trust you and I trust us, and if you can't see any reason not to do this, either, then -- hell, let's go get married."  </p>
<p>He leans over, kisses Peter, a slow, lingering press of lips against lips, more an expression of connection than of yearning or lust. Peter closes his eyes, drinks up the physical presence of his mate and the way that Stiles so easily said that he trusts Peter, trusts <i>them</i>, together. When he opens his eyes again, Stiles grins at him and gets out of the car. </p>
<p>Peter gets out as well, makes sure the doors are locked before meeting Stiles in front of the car, taking the hand that Stiles offers. They join up with Malia and Derek, go inside together, and Stiles waves at Denise as Peter leads his packmates to the elevator. </p>
<p>Derek makes a face at the smell Denise puts out, doesn't say anything, but Malia glares at her and Stiles does a particularly bad job of stifling a snort even as he lets his scent, magnified by the Spark fill the air around them. Once they're in the elevator, he tightens it back up, but not before Malia tells him thank you and that she doesn't understand humans.</p>
<p>A few moments later, the four of them get off on the third floor, Derek and Peter laughing, Malia scowling, and Stiles leading them all towards the door to the records department. Stiles reaches out, grabs Peter's hand and tugs Peter along as he walks into the records department like he belongs here and feels entirely at ease. It makes Peter wonder just how much time Stiles has spent up here, how well he knows the people here -- especially Linda. </p>
<p>There's no one visible when they get inside. Stiles goes right for a bell on the counter, taps it three times in a pattern, and a voice calls out from the back, "On my way, Stiles!" </p>
<p>Linda emerges a moment later, in the process of pushing hair out of her face. She grins wide when she sees Stiles though the expression dims a little when she takes note of Peter and the two behind them. "Alpha Hale," she says, inclining her head. "And -- pack, I assume?" </p>
<p>"My nephew, Derek, and Malia, my daughter," Peter says. "Derek's of age; he'll serve as our other witness. Thank you for taking care of the paperwork." </p>
<p>Linda waves that off, says, "My pleasure." She pauses, eyes flicking between the three shifters, before she asks, "Will it be all right for me to hug your mate?" </p>
<p>Peter makes a face. "Far be it from me to try and leash Stiles. I'd only ever fail, and miserably at that." </p>
<p>Stiles snorts, leans over and rubs his nose on Peter's cheek before he heads for the opening between the counters, wraps Linda up in his arms and hugs tight. Peter's on edge, wolf ready to pounce and tear his mate away from the threat and back to the safety of their packmates, but as soon as Stiles lets go and lets Linda press a kiss to his cheek, Stiles retreats back to Peter's side. Peter slings an arm around Stiles' waist, Stiles leans into him, and Linda watches them. </p>
<p>"Hm. You two look -- comfortable with each other. Good." Linda nods, as if to herself, then gives herself a little shake, gives Stiles a smile. "Well, then. You ready? Judge said we could go straight to chambers when you got here."</p>
<p>"More than ready," Stiles says, grinning at Linda and then turning that smile on Peter. The smile reflects the way their bond is brimming over with delight and excitement, the way that Stiles' scent <i>oozes</i> with the teeth-achingly sugar-sweet caramel of warm affection all around them, thick and sticky as if inviting everyone else to join in with his happiness. Peter's sure that his scent's probably much the same and he doesn't bother hiding how pleased he is to be here with Stiles as they follow Linda back to the elevator. </p>
<p>Her gaze -- quick and sharp, the kind of weighty judgment, Peter assumes, endemic to the Macfies; he wonders if it was something trained into her or if she was like this even before marrying into the clan -- lingers on their joined hands, on the way that Stiles keeps failing to hold back a smile, on the way every cell in Peter has focused absolute attention on Stiles, on the way that Derek keeps close to Peter's back, on the way Malia is looking around but still has her head cocked in Stiles' direction as if he'd just need to clear his throat to pull her concentration to him. </p>
<p>Peter has to admit that he admires the way she doesn't look or smell at all concerned about sharing such a small space with three shifters and the magic-user bound to their pack. As the elevator stops on the first floor and they all get out of it, she's still just as casual and self-assured, leading them through the halls with a comfort that speaks to how safe she feels in this place. She nods to a few people they pass, says hello to a harried looking woman who brightens up when she sees Linda and Stiles and pauses just long enough to return the greeting and tell Stiles hello as well, and doesn't otherwise say a word as she leads them around a few corners. When she comes to a stop, it's outside a door simply marked <i>Judge G. Denton - Beacon County Superior Court</i>. She knocks twice, crisp, firm knocks, and a moment later opens the door without waiting for instruction. </p>
<p>Peter raises an eyebrow at that, but stays quiet as she pokes her head around the door. </p>
<p>"Ah, Linda," a voice from inside says. "Stiles is here?" </p>
<p>"And his fiancé," Linda says, "along with a couple witnesses, though only one's of age." </p>
<p>The judge must gesture or give some sign, because Linda's ushering them all inside, closing the door behind them, in the next minute. Peter feels the way Stiles slinks in next to him, close, giving the man behind the desk a small -- but honest -- smile. Derek and Malia, behind them, move close enough to their backs for Peter to feel, Derek's bond going dark with apprehension. Linda stands somewhat to the side, giving Peter a clear view of Judge Denton and the man's office: clean to the point of military precision, shelves of books that smell of leather, paper, and old glue, the slight tinge of musk and male cologne sunk deep into the hardwood floor, the desk, the furniture. </p>
<p>The judge is an older man, probably five to ten years older than the sheriff, with thinning hair gone grey around his temples. He's not wearing his robes; his tie is loosened and his shirt-sleeves are rolled up, and the desk covered with paper and a few books indicates that he's been hard at work. The nod and slight smile he gives Stiles makes Stiles' scent flush with appreciation and fondness. </p>
<p>Without bothering to look at Peter yet, Judge Denton asks Stiles, "Do I want to know how you got your father to sign off on this? I can't imagine he's pleased, to say the least." </p>
<p>"He doesn't always read what he's signing," Stiles says. "If I take advantage of that every once in a while, who'd blame me?" </p>
<p>Peter saw the magic settle on the forms, knows it was more than inattention that had the sheriff signing the section giving parental approval for a minor to marry. He's relatively sure the judge knows something else was at play, as well, but the judge just sighs and says, "More fool him, then." He pauses, adds, "My daughter said you've missed a great deal of school recently. Apparently Lydia wouldn't tell her why." He waits, as if for an answer from Stiles. When one doesn't come, he nods, more to himself, Peter thinks, than to any of them, and just asks Stiles, simply, "You're here of your own free will?" </p>
<p>Stiles nods, says, "Yes, sir. Peter and I have been dating for a while. I won't find anyone else who suits me as well as he does." </p>
<p>"Obviously, <i>only</i> dating," the judge says. "Statutory laws being what they are." </p>
<p>"Of course," Stiles says, though the grin playing around the edges of his mouth, the laugh lines appearing up at the creases around his eyes, put paid to anyone thinking that was an honest answer. </p>
<p>Judge Denton sighs, finally looks away from Stiles. He peers over his glasses at Peter, takes in the way Peter and Stiles are holding hands, then lets his gaze flicker behind them, to Derek and Malia, and then to Linda, standing silent and patient next to them, clearly not <i>with</i> them but not doing anything to indicate any sort of displeasure or unwillingness. </p>
<p>"Mr. Hale," the judge says. "I hadn't heard officially that you'd recovered and left the hospital." For a brief moment, he looks down at his desk, shuffles some papers around and then pulls out a file. He sets the file on top, opens it, and looks back to Peter as he taps on whatever's inside. "It was quite a surprise for me to see your name on this application." </p>
<p>Peter grimaces. Rania and Joel have smoothed out things with much of the town and Stiles has done the same for the sheriff's station and some of his local haunts, but the judge is right -- he's still legally considered to be a missing coma patient. </p>
<p>"Ah," he says. "Yes. About that." </p>
<p>Denton cuts him off with a dismissive gesture. "Apparently there's been some paperwork filed; I took the liberty of contacting a few friends I have in Sacramento to make sure that everything was in order. As of right now, the DMV is processing your application for a new driver's license, Public Health is getting ready to send you a copy of your birth certificate, and the SSA noted an open request for a copy of your social security card. I even spoke to someone I know at the State Department and there's already a passport application working its way through appropriate channels." The scent coming off Derek, full of bewilderment, must mirror what Peter's feeling. He didn't do <i>any</i> of this. The judge takes in Peter's reaction, drawls, "It also appears that you're in the middle of a lawsuit against the care centre for losing your records when you were transferred. How's the case coming along?" </p>
<p>Peter blinks. "I -- hm. That's a good question." </p>
<p>"There are people in this town," Judge Denton says, giving Peter a look of judgmental consideration, "who apparently believe you're a respectable member of society. They have gone to a great deal of trouble on your behalf -- most of it, I imagine, illegal, though I couldn't possibly begin to prove it -- to make sure you have the paperwork to back up that kind of claim.. You would do well not to waste their efforts on the sorts of shenanigans I remember from your younger years."</p>
<p>Stiles turns to Peter, goes, "Wait, what? Shenanigans? <i>Peter</i>, you've been holding out on me." </p>
<p>"Ask Peter about them later," the judge tells Stiles. "No doubt you'll get some enjoyment out of them." He pauses, then, looks over his glasses at Peter and says, "I was sorry to hear about your sister's death. No matter how much of a stick up her ass she had, no one deserved what happened to your family. I trust that you've had time to -- come to terms with things?"</p>
<p>Peter has never felt as much honest respect for a human as he does for this judge. "Yes, thank you," he says, and holds the judge's gaze, both of them communicating quite a lot in their silence. </p>
<p>The judge looks away first, down at the papers, says, "Very well. I've gone through your paperwork and it appears everything is in order. The parental consent waiver was signed and submitted by your father, Stiles, and the court's granted an order of permission as well." He looks at a few more things, hums once, and Peter feels a flare of nerves run through him. This man has the power to stop the marriage, to tell the sheriff, to do <i>something</i> -- but in the end, the judge looks up at them and simply asks, "Would you like the quick version or do you have vows?" </p>
<p>Peter looks to Stiles. Vows. Shit. He hadn't -- with everything moving so fast, he doesn't have a ring and he didn't even <i>think</i> about writing vows. </p>
<p>"Just the quick version now, please," Stiles says, giving Peter a wink and turning back to the judge. "We're going to do a more formal ceremony later; we'll save the flowery, teary-eyed stuff for that."</p>
<p>Denton doesn't look displeased or surprised. "Good," he says. "I was hoping to leave early today. Well then. By the power invested in me by the State of California, Stiles, do you take Peter to be your husband?" </p>
<p>Stiles laughs, says, "I do." </p>
<p>"And Peter, do you take Stiles to be your husband?" </p>
<p>Peter gestures at Derek, who sighs and takes the two ring pops out of his pocket. Stiles makes a noise of surprise, and, at Peter's offer of both, taps the blue raspberry one. Peter unwraps it and, as he's sliding it on to Stiles' finger, says, "I do." </p>
<p>As soon as the ring pop's on, Stiles makes grabby hands for the other one, rips open the packet with his teeth and pushes the candy onto Peter's finger. It barely makes it past the first knuckle; Stiles sees that, throws his head back and laughs, and -- Linda was right, Stiles is <i>delighted</i>, absolutely full of a kind of innocent, child-like glee that Peter so rarely sees from his mate. </p>
<p>He's so beautiful. </p>
<p>"I'm going to regret this," Denton says, "but I pronounce you husband and husband. You may now --" and Peter doesn't hear the rest of it. Stiles has his hands on Peter's cheeks, is already pulling Peter near. As Stiles kisses him, as Derek and Linda clap, as Malia cheers, Peter closes his eyes and sinks into his mate.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Chapter 23</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The judge pretty much kicks them out of his chambers as soon as Stiles starts licking at his ring pop. Linda takes them down to the county clerk's office to make sure everything gets signed, filed, and that they get copies to take with them. It doesn't take long and then Linda's kissing Stiles' cheek, pressing a folder into his hands, and ushering them out of the building -- through a side entrance Peter hadn't noticed before -- and looking outside in both directions before basically throwing them out. </p>
<p>Peter's suspicious but Stiles says, once they all get in the car, "My dad stops by at the end of his shift on Fridays to check in with the DA. Updates on cases, any new evidence the DA might need, shit like that." </p>
<p>Peter looks at Stiles, cannot believe that he'd take the chance on the sheriff stopping into the building while they're there -- but, then again, Stiles would <i>never</i> leave something like that up to chance. "Who've you got stalling him?" </p>
<p>Stiles grins. "Parrish until three-thirty, Becca after that, and Mrs. Hunter from the print shop across the street promised to come up with something if he managed to leave before five." </p>
<p>"Little monster," Peter murmurs. "Didn't think that was info you should've shared?" </p>
<p>"Only if someone asked," Stiles says, "and only with pack. No one inside -- well. It <i>did</i> get us out of any obligatory small talk." </p>
<p>Malia, sitting in the back but leaning forward, listening to them, makes a noise of utter disgust. "Boring," she says. "I'm glad you didn't tell them." </p>
<p>Stiles shifts in his seat, sitting sideways so he can see Peter and also look at Malia and Derek. "So," he asks brightly, "what's next?" </p>
<p>"I made dinner reservations," Peter says, "but I didn't think we'd be done so quickly. We have an hour to spare." </p>
<p>"We could go to the bakery," Stiles suggests. "Have a cup of coffee and pick up some pastries for breakfast tomorrow?" </p>
<p>Peter opens his mouth to say that they need to have a talk about what Amanda is, that he doesn't feel comfortable leading his pack -- even though one member is a Spark -- into a building which might, depending on Amanda's schedule, hold a person of unknown talent. Derek, though, beats Peter to it and says, "I need a break from the pastries," eyes flicking to Peter. "We could go back to the house and relax for a little but I have a feeling no one will actually want to leave again if we do that, and I know what Peter's like when he has to cancel reservations." Peter bares his fangs; it only makes Stiles burst out laughing. </p>
<p>"Where do we have reservations?" Stiles asks. </p>
<p>Malia answers, says, "Sage Garden. Peter showed me the menu. I'm going to get the veal." </p>
<p>Stiles tilts his head, gives Peter a puzzled look, says, "I've only gone there twice but I love that place. How'd you know?" </p>
<p>"Malia told me," Peter says. "They do have a vineyard and a greenhouse; we could waste time walking around?" </p>
<p>"Good plan," Stiles says. "Let's do that." </p>
<p>Stiles bends his neck, mouths at the ring pop, practically fellating it, and Peter instantly regrets ever listening to Linda's suggestion. "Menace," Peter mutters, as he puts on his seat belt and turns the car on. Stiles just meets Peter's eyes as he sucks harder, cheeks hollowing. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Peter makes the drive last a little longer by taking the scenic route around town, rather than driving straight through, and makes sure he hits every red light. As soon as he parks outside of the little restaurant, Malia opens the door and gets out with a huff of relief. She disappears quickly into the greenhouse and Derek follows her, telling Peter he'll keep an eye on her. </p>
<p>Stiles, by this time, has licked and sucked the ring pop down to the plastic ring around his finger; he takes it off and drops it in the cupholder. "Are you going to buy me a real one?" he asks Peter, looking out of the window, though there's a small grin on his lips, scent ringing through with mischief rather than hesitation. </p>
<p>"It's on the list," Peter says, wryly, "as are a couple dozen other things. Is there one you've got picked out already?" </p>
<p>"Nah," Stiles says, turning to lay that grin on Peter. He looks good -- but tired, underneath the joy written clearly all over his face. "I trust you." </p>
<p>It's not the first time Stiles has said that, not even the first time this afternoon, but hearing it still has Peter's wolf standing tall and proud, howling out its happiness. "You get final veto, though," Peter says. "After all, you're the one that has to wear it." </p>
<p>Stiles snorts, says, "And you love the thought of it." He reaches over, takes Peter's right hand, holds it between both of his. Stiles runs warm, some function of the Spark -- not hot like shifters but warmer than a human -- and the feel of it, of Stiles' skin on his, of the slight scratch of Stiles' callused fingers, has Peter aching. Stiles licks his lips and Peter's stuck on the way the inside of his lips and his tongue have turned blue from the ring pop, has to tear his eyes away from Stiles' mouth. "Derek said no to the bakery but you felt relieved when he said it," Stiles says. "That have anything to do with the text you sent me this morning?" </p>
<p>"When you said -- Derek can't see the bite on your neck. No one can." Peter pauses, watching as Stiles narrows his eyes in thought, finally says, "Amanda can. <i>How</i>?" </p>
<p>Stiles chews on his bottom lip for a moment. "I don't know," he says. "I -- it shouldn't be possible." </p>
<p>"Derek said she smells like you and Danny and Lydia -- not shifter but something more than human," Peter says. "Not as much as the rest of you but enough to draw his notice. You honestly don't know what she is?" </p>
<p>"Up until this point," Stiles says, "I would've said human. Maybe, if anything, slightly empathic, but nothing that would be strong enough to do more than, oh, I dunno, gauge the emotions of a room when she walked in. Being able to see through this, though," he says, gesturing at his throat, at the bite mark that's starting to sink and scar into his flesh, "would speak to more than just a little empathy. It'd have to be a seer's gift -- but I should've noticed that. It's possible, I suppose, that she only has an aspect of the gift -- aura-reading would show off your claim on me, and true sight would give her the ability to see through any wards or shields -- but strong enough to see through <i>my</i> magic? There shouldn't be a way to hide that from me. Maybe if she had a touch of fae blood, but, again, I would've seen that." </p>
<p>Hearing that doesn't make Peter feel any better. He's been eating and drinking things that Amanda's touched for <i>months</i>, now; anyone strong enough to circumvent a Spark's magic would've had the ability to poison him at any time -- and he fed his <i>pack</i> with her food, too. </p>
<p>"Is she on your list?" Stiles asks. Peter shakes his head, not following, and Stiles says, "The list you're making that apparently has ring-shopping on it," with a smile. "Is figuring out what she might be on that list?" </p>
<p>"No," Peter says. "But I'll add her when we get home." </p>
<p>Stiles lets out a deep breath. "I'll go visit her and see what I can find out," he says. Peter opens his mouth to argue; if she can see through a Spark's magic, then he doesn't want Stiles alone with her, not until they know beyond any doubt that she's not an enemy biding her time and planning an attack on their pack. "I'll take Malia, if that would make you feel better," Stiles says. "She won't balk if things get -- messy." </p>
<p>Stiles is inordinately fond of Amanda; Peter's watched the two of them talk in truncated sentences like they don't even need words to communicate with each other, watched as the two of them made complicated coffee drinks around each other, dancing as if they're following patterns and rhythms that only they know. To know that Stiles is willing to <i>hurt</i> her in defense of their pack makes something inside of Peter <i>sing</i>. </p>
<p>"Take Derek," Peter suggests. "I have time I need to spend with Danny, and I promised Malia that I'd take her along with me when I go to talk to Kira." </p>
<p>"I could take Lydia," Stiles counteroffers. "No claws or fangs but it might be a chance for her to stretch her wings, such as they are." </p>
<p>Peter considers that, finally just shrugs one shoulder and says, "Whoever you think is best. Just as long as you don't go alone."</p>
<p>Stiles nods in agreement, though he mutters, "Worrywart," under his breath. </p>
<p>Peter rolls his eyes, says, "Come on, let's go let the maître d' know we're here. Maybe they can seat us a little early." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Dinner is a riotous affair; Peter's glad he had the foresight to reserve one of the smaller private rooms. Malia's ruthless when it comes to critiquing the food and steals at least one bite off of everyone else's plates while defending her own with ruthless efficiency; Stiles has marks from her fork all over the back of his hand and it's only thanks to shifter healing that Derek and Peter don't as well. Derek unwinds enough to start laughing halfway through the main course and doesn't stop, and Stiles drinks his way through three pitchers of sparkling water by himself, with all the talking he's doing. Peter, for his part, mostly leans back and enjoys it, lets the feeling of a content and happy pack, a content and happy <i>mate</i>, fill him up to overflowing. </p>
<p>They stop for ice cream on the way home even though they each had a dessert at the restaurant and they tumble back into the townhouse with sticky hands and, in Stiles and Malia's cases, sticky faces. The giddiness sticks with them as they all clean up, pressed up against one another, moving around each other, and as they change and fall into bed in a big pile. </p>
<p>It's not the way Peter thought his wedding night would end. Back before the fire, when the thought of marriage was twined with the idea of the treaties and alliances and nothing of love, when he was expected to bring back a bride who'd increase the Hales' standing in their world and nothing more, he hadn't even imagined sharing a bed with his spouse -- and always spouse, never mate, never anyone bound to him deeper than human legality. </p>
<p>Once he became infatuated with Stiles, after his wolf agreed that this teenager was <i>theirs</i>, all he could think of was mating. Even at his most insane, bent on vengeance at any cost, he'd wanted to sink his fangs deep into Stiles' wrist. But now, mated and wed, claimed and bitten, something about being here, in a heap with his mate, his second, and his executioner, his <i>family</i>, has Peter almost purring in pleasure. </p>
<p>"Happy, wolf?" Stiles asks, murmuring the question into Peter's ear, one hand resting on Peter's stomach. </p>
<p>"More than I ever imagined," Peter replies. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Peter opens his eyes in the darkness. Derek's still asleep, breathing hard and heavy, and Malia's slipped into her fur sometime in the past few hours, is stretched out along the foot of the bed. Stiles, half on top of Peter, opens sleepy, Spark-white eyes, looks at Peter, and asks, "Okay?" </p>
<p>"Dream," Peter whispers. "Go back to sleep." </p>
<p>Stiles shifts, reaches up and runs his thumb across Peter's forehead, down one cheek. "Didn't answer the question." </p>
<p>Peter's not quite sure how to respond. This dream wasn't like the vision of Noshiko, wasn't like the harrowing sight of Stiles drowning or the memory of the Winterlands disintegrating under the Spark's power. It was -- softer, and all the more sad for it. </p>
<p>"I'm sorry your mother changed so much," he finally settles on saying. Derek shifts, hips sliding on the sheet and one hand going up to force its way between his head and the pillow. Peter waits until Derek's fallen still again, breath heavy and even, scent filled with sleep, then adds, "I'm sorry that your father changed so much when she died." </p>
<p>The dream was -- tender, simple, even sweet in its innocence. A weekend afternoon, music on the radio, soft pillows of flour rising up into the air every time Stiles' tiny hands, propelled along by bigger ones, came down on a sheet of some kind of dough. Claudia was laughing, and Peter aches now at the memory of her beauty, at the way her smile lit up the room, at the way her laugh echoed and took root, banishing all thought of darkness. He's having trouble pulling up his usual contempt for the sheriff, too, having seen the way the man held Claudia's hips so lightly, brushed a kiss to her throat and ruffled Stiles' hair, the three of them such a close, tight family unit. </p>
<p>It was just a moment, barely more than a minute, but Peter thinks he'll always remember the shine in Stiles' eyes, the play of light as the curtains danced in the breeze from the open windows, the echo of music, the scent of love, so much love. </p>
<p>"Me too," Stiles says, closing his eyes and laying his head back down. Peter tilts to look at him, to take in the fine bone structure that he knows, now, Stiles inherited from his mother, the curve of his cheek, the fragile smudge of colour that his eyelashes make against his skin. "It was good, y'know? Life was, before she got sick."</p>
<p>"It's still not your fault," Peter says. </p>
<p>Stiles lets out a sigh. "I know," he says. "Sometimes it's just -- it's hard to remember. I can tell myself a million times over but I still feel like -- and I think I always will. It goes a little deeper than rationality." </p>
<p>Peter nuzzles at Stiles' hair and says, "Guilt often is. Sorrow, too." </p>
<p>His pack, so burdened with anguish, so torn apart by pain and mourning. At times, Peter doesn't know how the hell he's supposed to help. He shifts and Malia wakes up, huffs at him with her eyes closed. He breathes out a little laugh, bites his lip to keep from making another noise when Malia opens one eye and bares her teeth. Stiles apologises but Malia snarls and falls off the bed, stalking out of the room and downstairs where it'll be, presumably, more quiet. Stiles' bond thrills with laughter and he's smiling, when Peter looks down at him. </p>
<p>"We get to sleep in, right?" Stiles asks. "No school, nothing on the immediate agenda?" </p>
<p>"Shut up," Derek mutters, voice sleep-worn and irritable. "Or I'm gonna go downstairs with Mal." </p>
<p>Peter and Stiles meet eyes and they both start laughing, try to keep it quiet but evidently not enough, because a moment later, Derek's yanking his pillow and the blanket off the bed and stumbling downstairs. </p>
<p>"Oops," Stiles says. He's grinning, doesn't sound at all repentant, and Peter can't help himself from smiling back. "But hey," Stiles goes on, "we're awake and we have the bed to ourselves. Wanna fool around, husband-of-mine?" </p>
<p>Peter hauls Stiles up, kisses him, says, when they break apart for air, "Say it again." </p>
<p>He starts to press kisses all over Stiles' face, hands working to get Stiles' shirt off, and Stiles laughs, does nothing to help him along but also doesn't stop him, too busy kicking off his pyjama bottoms and helping Peter with his. "Husband," he says, again, instead. "My wolf, my husband."</p>
<p>Peter glories in hearing that, in knowing that Stiles is his in every way that matters to anyone who'd care to question him. Shifters will know that Stiles is his by the scar of Peter's teeth, once he gets Stiles a ring then humans will see that and know, and no magic user would ever dare to question the depth of the bonds between them, even above and beyond the way that Peter's been claimed so thoroughly by the Spark. </p>
<p>He worries his teeth on Stiles' earlobe, the hot press of the Spark keeping him from the skin of Stiles' throat, and Stiles tilts his head, gives Peter more room, arches and hisses as Peter moves to Stiles' shoulder and digs his fangs into his mate's -- his <i>husband's</i> -- flesh. The hot press of the Spark's magic flows along with Stiles' blood as Peter sucks the wound, feeding vampire-like on his mate's magic. </p>
<p>Stiles heals quick, blood trickle stopping, and Peter growls, relieved and irritated at the same time. He sniffs at the wound, snarls soundlessly, and Stiles pokes him in the side, scritches his toenails down Peter's leg. "Hey," Stiles says, and he pushes and prods at Peter until Peter's face is above his, Stiles' hands on Peter's cheek, one thumb stroking back and forth, a slow and hypnotising sweep of skin. "Hey, Peter, c'mon." </p>
<p>Peter lets out a deep breath, tilts and leans down to press his cheek against Stiles. "Sorry," he says. "Sometimes I -- sorry." </p>
<p>"No apologies," Stiles reminds him. "But you have to tell me: you want something fun and slow or something rough and fast, huh? I'm kinda getting mixed messages, here." </p>
<p>The wolf isn't inherently violent but it <i>is</i> a predator, a hunter, something that doesn't mind a long hunt if there's a kill waiting at the end, bloody and hot, rich with the scent of surrender. Peter's not all that divorced from the wolf; he's always been a little more animal than human, even before the fire, and the instinctual press of lupine desire has only grown since he tamed Deucalion's spark and the power it holds within it. He loves the slow, companionable feel of playful sex with Stiles, adores the games between them, the push and pull of dominance, the submission that each of them <i>chooses</i> in turns, but he <i>craves</i> the fast, violent rut of wolf and Spark, all teeth and fur and blood, the dance of beauty between two predators who collide hard and fast and with no mercy. </p>
<p>Peter bares his teeth and Stiles grins up at him, eyes flaring white. "All right, wolf," Stiles says. "At your speed, then." </p>
<p>The kiss Peter lays on Stiles, then, is less a kiss and more of an attack, fangs biting their way into Stiles' mouth and tongue pushing inside, laying claim. Stiles fights back, uses his own teeth and tries to push Peter away, but Peter grabs Stiles' wrists in his hands and pins them to the mattress, using the opportunity to move down Stiles' body and rip his fangs into the skin above Stiles' breastbone. </p>
<p>"Ah, <i>shit</i>," Stiles hisses, "mother<i>fuck</i>," and his scent goes wild with lust, a deep cavern cratering open and filling in with the humidity of sun-baked jungles, all writhing and full of life, with a splattering of need's warm rain and the ever-increasing rhythm of a pulse jumping to meet the feeling of flying off a cliff and hanging in mid-air, escaping gravity before falling down and down and down further still, the promise of deep water cold enough to steal breath just waiting, biding its time. </p>
<p>Stiles tests the hold Peter has on his wrists, inhales sharp when Peter's claws dig in, lets out another muffled curse when one of the claws hits bone and scrapes along its surface. Stiles knees Peter in the stomach, more of a reflex at the pain than a true protest, but Peter snarls, the noise turning into a whimper as the Spark blazes into being, room going as bright as it does outside at noon on a cloudless day. Still, even with the Spark's clear presence, Peter doesn't cower; he blinks tears out of eyes gone alpha-red and then rears up from Stiles only long enough to roll Stiles over onto his belly. </p>
<p>Stiles kicks back but Peter avoids the foot; he gets Stiles' legs spread and then hitches Stiles' hips up, pulling Stiles backwards. Stiles fights but he's not using the Spark; he gets a pillow in one hand and tries swinging it behind him to hit Peter but Peter sees it coming, rips it out of Stiles' hand and then presses his hand to the back of Stiles' head, forcing his face into the sheets and making sure Stiles is paying more attention to how he's going to be able to breathe than what Peter's doing. For just a moment, the wolf goes still and quiet, expecting the Spark to boil over and <i>hurt</i> it; Peter waits, caught in an endless moment, listening to Stiles struggle for air, and wonders if, like last night, he's gone too far. </p>
<p>Finally, Stiles gets enough leverage to turn his head to the side, giving him room and air to breathe, but he doesn't do anything more than that, doesn't take advantage of Peter's momentary hesitation to put an end to this, doesn't seem like it's thrown him out of the moment -- Stiles <i>reeks</i> of arousal, desire and want and need a cloud so thick around him that it's a wonder it's not eating up all of the oxygen in the room. </p>
<p>"For the love of god, don't force your way in," Stiles says, still gasping. </p>
<p>Peter laughs, a cruel, heartless sound, with so much love underneath it he might as well be choking on it. "You can't stop me," he taunts. </p>
<p>He does take time to finger Stiles open a little -- dry, fast, painfully, if the swearing and fighting from Stiles is any indication -- though it's clear that it hasn't helped much; when he forces himself inside, Stiles lets out a harsh, broken shriek of pain that has Peter thanking god the warding on the room is still present or else he'd have two betas up here tearing him off of Stiles. </p>
<p>It's not -- entirely pleasant, like this, with Stiles too tight around him to make fucking him anything but work, too dry to ease the friction, but for all the protest Stiles gives voice to, he's not stopping Peter. Instead, Peter notices that his hips start to move, start to meet Peter's thrusts, quickly falls into an inverse rhythm, that he's not fighting the hold Peter has on his head or on his hip, that the noise turns from screaming sobs into pleas for more, for harder, for faster. </p>
<p>Peter's not sure he can do what Stiles is asking of him but it's what he wants as well, so he tries. He ruts into Stiles' deep, hard, chases his own pleasure without the appearance of care, and when he feels like he still needs more, Peter changes his hold on Stiles' head, grabbing Stiles' hair and pulling him <i>up</i>. Stiles' balance is off; he leans back into Peter, twists his head enough to press his cheek to Peter's face, and groans as he falls a little more onto Peter's cock, as Peter rocks in just a little deeper. </p>
<p>Stiles throws one hand back, wraps it around Peter's neck, groans out, "<i>My wolf</i>." </p>
<p>Peter's fallen into his beta-shift and he lisps through his fangs, "Yours. Yours like you're mine. <i>Mine</i>." </p>
<p>Stiles' breath hitches as Peter wraps one claw-tipped hand around Stiles' dick and jerks, slides his thumb over the head and through the mess there, and as Peter dips one claw into the slit, as Stiles howls, as Stiles comes, the Spark goes nuclear and pulls Peter into a breathless, roaring orgasm. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>It takes long moments filled with panting, with the noise of Peter's blood running past his eardrums, to come down. The Spark lingers bright, scorching like high noon in the desert, for minutes, only beginning to fade back into a starlight glow as Stiles' heart starts to settle into its normal hummingbird rhythm. </p>
<p>"Holy <i>fuck</i>," Stiles finally says, twisting just enough to brush Peter's nose with his own. "I think you killed me." </p>
<p>"Never," Peter says. He waits another minute until he thinks that his muscles will support him if he tries to move, and carefully lifts Stiles off of him. Stiles, for his part, collapses onto his stomach, lies there looking debauched, Peter's come leaking out of him, scratches showing up on his skin. Peter picks up Stiles' shirt, uses it to clean Stiles off as best he can, wipes off his own dick, then falls down onto the bed next to Stiles. Stiles rolls over and gives Peter a tired, satiated grin; Peter's eyes get caught on that before he looks down to see the fading bite mark on Stiles' chest, the healing claw marks. "Okay?" </p>
<p>Stiles stretches, winces a little but yawns, then, one of those jaw-cracking yawns that leaves him grinning at Peter afterwards. "Better than," he says. He leans in, gives Peter a quick kiss, and says, "People really weren't joking about wedding night sex, huh." </p>
<p>"I hear honeymoon sex is even better," Peter says. "What's your idea for that? You said you'd tell me after we went to Medina's but with everything --." </p>
<p>"I know where Gerard's hiding," Stiles says. Peter's eyes go cold, red. "Turns out there's a nice little b-and-b nearby." Stiles squirms up close to Peter, runs his nose along Peter's jawline, scrapes his teeth up Peter's throat and sucks on his earlobe for a moment before whispering, right into Peter's ear, "What d'you say, husband? A few days in Napa, a little murder?" </p>
<p>Peter growls, tugs Stiles close so he can give Stiles a hungry, grasping kiss, so that he can drink the Spark's vengeance right from Stiles' mouth. "I think," he says, meeting Stiles eyes and matching the vicious little smile Stiles is giving him with one of his own, "that you should definitely plan our honeymoon for right after school gets out." </p>
<p>Stiles laughs, drops a kiss on the tip of Peter's nose, and says, "Yes, dear." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Peter wakes up to the bright sunlight of late morning shining around the edges of the curtains. Stiles is sprawled all over him, still deep in sleep, and he doesn't wake up as Peter pushes and prods in small increments to get out from underneath his mate -- his husband. Instead, Stiles rolls over, grabs one of the pillows and clings to it, buries his face in it. Once he's upright, Peter looks Stiles over, makes sure there aren't any bruises or scratches still lingering on Stiles' skin; Peter appreciates seeing them, seeing his claim written all over his mate, but he hates the thought of causing Stiles any unwanted pain. </p>
<p>Thankfully, it looks like Stiles finished healing up after they both fell asleep; Stiles only carries the three scarred-in marks that he had before: the mating bite, the one high on his throat, and the one on his back, between his shoulder blades. Peter reaches down, strokes his fingers through Stiles' hair, and smiles when Stiles mutters something unintelligible and then presses his face even deeper into the pillow.</p>
<p>Closing the door behind him, Peter leaves the bedroom and takes a long, hot shower before going downstairs in search of coffee. He doesn't hear any movement coming from downstairs while he's in the bathroom but he still blinks when he sees that both Malia and Derek are gone. There's a note on the counter, though, one that simply reads, <i>Malia went home - brunch study date with Kira and Lydia. The organiser I ordered came in so I went to pick it up and take it over to the loft. Might start taking apart Stiles' Jeep. Text me when you're both ready for company and please air out the bedroom if you expect us all to sleep in there tonight.</i> </p>
<p>Peter grins. Looks like he'll have Stiles to himself a little longer. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Half an hour later, Peter goes back upstairs, this time with a tray of pancakes, fresh fruit, sausage patties, and coffee. Peter opens the door and stands for a moment in the doorway, just taking Stiles in. Sometimes he doesn't know how he got so lucky, to end up with such a beautiful, brilliant man in his life, not to mention his <i>bed</i>, and knowing that he's the one who put the bitemark on Stiles' neck and wrist -- easy to see now that Stiles, gloriously naked, is spread-eagled across the mattress, one foot hanging off the side, little wheezing noises coming out of his mouth with every breath -- heals something inside of his wolf, maybe even deeper, that cracked a long time ago. </p>
<p>"Wakey wakey," Peter calls out, obnoxiously loud, and Stiles groans, rolls to the side and flails as he nearly falls off the bed. </p>
<p>"Oh my god, the <i>worst</i>," Stiles mutters. "Where's the marriage license; I wanna return you, this is not what I signed up for." </p>
<p>Peter laughs, perches on the corner of the mattress with the tray of food balanced on his thighs. "You knew what you were getting into," he says, reaching out a hand and stroking down Stiles' flank, side to hip to leg. "The return policy is that there are no returns -- so, sorry, Stiles, but you're stuck with me." </p>
<p>Stiles grumbles; Peter thinks he hears something uncomplimentary about Peter's mother, grandmother, and the -- family goat? He snorts, smacks Stiles, and when Stiles rears upright, hair sticking every which way, pillow and sheet creases down one side of his face, eyelashes stuck together with crust, Peter outright laughs. </p>
<p>"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," Stiles snarks. "Like you look any better." He cracks open one eye, takes Peter in, and makes a face of complete disgust. "Ugh. Perfect, like always." </p>
<p>Before Stiles can flump back down -- and it looks like that's exactly what he's gearing up to do -- Peter picks up the cup of coffee and waves it under Stiles' nose. Stiles makes grabby hands and Peter relinquishes the mug once it looks like Stiles has a firm grip. Stiles downs the whole thing in six long swallows and a moment later he opens both eyes, gaze brightening when he sees the food. </p>
<p>"Aw," Stiles says. "This is -- you didn't have to do this." </p>
<p>"I know," Peter says. Stiles resettles on the bed and Peter hands over the tray before shifting up to sit next to Stiles. Stiles digs in without hesitation, promptly getting syrup all over his face, and Peter sighs internally at the thought of having to wash the sheets yet <i>again</i>. He was the one to bring pancakes up for Stiles, though, so he has no one else to blame. </p>
<p>"Where'd the rest of them go?" Stiles asks between bites. "I don't hear anyone downstairs." </p>
<p>Peter reaches over, swipes up a trail of syrup from Stiles' chin, sucks his thumb clean. Stiles' eyes flare Spark-white at the sight; he finishes chewing the bite in his mouth and swallows, then licks his lips. Peter grins, knows the innocent expression on his face doesn't match the heat in his eyes. "Derek's gone to the loft," he says, "to work on the Jeep. Malia had a study date." </p>
<p>Stiles tilts his head, gives Peter a skeptical look and says, "House is empty and you're wasting time feeding me?" </p>
<p>Peter laughs, leans over and steals the bite of food waiting on Stiles' fork. "Thought maybe you'd need the energy after last night." His smile fades, though, a moment later, and he asks, "You're all right?" </p>
<p>"You asked me that already," Stiles says. "And the answer hasn't changed. If it's all the same to you, though, I'd prefer something a little more gentle this morning." He rolls his eyes at the look that takes over Peter's face, the sudden worry that Stiles hasn't healed, that Peter was too rough. Stiles elbows him, says, "I'm <i>fine</i>, promise. Just -- let's mix it up a little. Okay? If you fuck me half to death every time we have sex, there's gonna be a time I honestly won't survive." </p>
<p>"You and me both," Peter mutters. He lets out a deep breath and picks up Stiles' coffee cup, says, "I'll get you a refill. Keep eating." </p>
<p>Stiles raises an eyebrow and makes a big show of cutting the next bite of pancake and shoving it in his mouth. Peter rolls his eyes, gets up, and goes downstairs.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Chapter 24</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Stiles finishes his breakfast and Peter uses a damp rag to wipe off the sticky traces of syrup from Stiles' face and hands. They lounge in bed while they both sip cups of coffee; at one point, Peter gets his phone, pulls up the rings he's bookmarked, and he and Stiles tease each other as Peter uses the minor fluctuations in Stiles' heartbeat and scent to figure out which ones Stiles likes best. They have sex again, this time slow and gentle, Peter coming with a soft groan, Stiles' hands in his hair and their cheeks pressed together. </p>
<p>After, Stiles sprawls out over Peter's body with his face buried in Peter's throat. Peter draws idle circles on the broad expanse of Stiles' back, nails catching on the jut of his bones -- hip and shoulder blade and a few knobs of his spine. Stiles still needs to put weight back on, is still far too skinny for Peter's taste; he's been anchored for days now but not given any time to rest, to recover, has most likely been using more of his Spark than he really should. </p>
<p>"You're thinking too loud," Stiles mutters, lips moving on Peter's skin, voice sending vibrations into Peter, echoing down to match the beat of blood moving through Peter's veins. </p>
<p>"Not sorry," Peter murmurs back, lips curving up in a smile. The smile fades, though, as Stiles huffs and rolls off of Peter, standing up and stretching, scratching the skin under his navel, yawning. "You know what I'm going to ask him, right?" </p>
<p>Stiles grins at Peter, says, "Yeah," and bends down to kiss Peter on the forehead. "Thank you," he adds, quietly, scent full of caramel and sugar, thick enough to set Peter's teeth to aching with tender sweetness. Peter smiles up at him, is helpless to do any more or any less, and Stiles slides out of the room and to the bathroom for a shower. </p>
<p>Peter stays on the bed for a few more minutes, catching his breath. When he finally moves, he heads downstairs, pours himself a cup of coffee, sits on the couch. Both the human and lupine sides of him adore the pack, love having them around, wouldn't change anything and would kill pretty much anyone and anything to keep them, keep <i>this</i>, but it's been a huge switch to go from spending most of his time by himself or with Stiles alone in a quiet, calm environment to being around others all the time. It's taking a while to get used to it -- and he will, he <i>will</i> -- but he'll probably always savour these quiet moments. </p>
<p>Stiles comes down about twenty minutes later, hair still damp and his cheeks flushed red from the heat of the water. He's quiet as well, footsteps light on the stairs, breathing calm and contained as he sits down next to Peter and then leans against him. </p>
<p>"I think I'm gonna go harass Derek for taking the Jeep apart without me being there to supervise," Stiles tells him. "I mean, <i>rude</i>. I'll pick up lunch on my way, too. I bet Derek's gotten too distracted by all the duct tape to think about food. You'll be all right?"</p>
<p>"Just fine," Peter promises. </p>
<p>Stiles snorts, tells him to behave, and gets up. "Come see us when you're done" </p>
<p>Peter barely has time to say that of course he will before Stiles has slipped his sneakers on and opened the door. Stiles pauses there, looks back at him, outlined by sunlight, eyes flaring white. Peter thinks Stiles is going to say something, even raises his eyebrow in question, but Stiles merely shakes his head, gives Peter a lopsided smile, and leaves. </p>
<p>After a few minutes of enjoying the peace and quiet, listening to the rhythm of traffic outside, finishing his coffee, Peter texts Danny, waits for a response, then goes upstairs and strips the bed, starts washing yet another load of sheets and pillowcases. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Half an hour later, there's a knock on the front door. Peter wipes off his hands, flings the dish towel over his shoulder, and goes to let Danny inside. Danny smells -- not nervous, but a little wary; Peter can't blame him, not entirely, because this will be the first time they've ever been alone together. Still, it makes the wolf inside of him growl, just a little, at the thought that they've been neglecting a packmate enough to have Danny be hesitant about coming inside. </p>
<p>"Something smells good," Danny says, kicking his shoes off and pushing them against the wall like it's a habit rather than something he's doing to leave a good impression. </p>
<p>Peter reaches out, runs his fingertips down Danny's neck and Danny sighs, tilts his head to give Peter more room as his scent evens out, mellowing into the fresh, crisp air of an autumn morning, damp with dew and heavy with ripe apples. "I wasn't sure how hungry you'd be," Peter says, stepping back and gesturing for Danny to follow him into the kitchen. "I made meatballs for sandwiches; if you've just eaten or you're not ready for much, half a sandwich?" </p>
<p>Danny trails behind him, sits down at the counter when Peter tilts his head in that direction. It looks like Danny wants to refuse, wants to help, and Peter wonders if that's something instinctual or if Danny's parents taught their son such good manners. Danny doesn't argue, though, just watches as Peter bustles around the kitchen. "I ate breakfast but that was <i>hours</i> ago," he says. "I'm good for a sandwich. Maybe a couple extras on the side. Is that homemade sauce?" </p>
<p>"Not this time," Peter says. "I wanted to make sure lunch was ready when you got here and I don't have any stocked up. Something to do when things settle down; Stiles usually makes sure I have chicken broth in the freezer but I'm running out of that as well." </p>
<p>"I don't know how to cook as much as I should," Danny says, "but I can follow directions. When you have your cooking day, let me know? I'd like to learn. Might get me brownie points with whoever I end up living with at school." </p>
<p>Peter promises that he will and takes the rolls out of the oven, where he'd had them under the broiler to toast a little. He starts laying things out on the counter: a bowl of meatballs in perhaps more sauce than is required; rolls; potato chips; a few slices of different kinds of cheese; even a small tomato and cucumber salad. </p>
<p>"Is this an alpha thing or a Peter thing?" Danny asks, eyes having gotten progressively wider and wider with every dish Peter sets out. "Because if it's some alpha imperative to provide for your packmates, then you are doing <i>great</i>." </p>
<p>Peter laughs, asks, "Which one of them has been telling you about alpha imperatives?" as he's filling up two glasses with ice and water. </p>
<p>Danny takes his glass with a mutter of thanks when Peter offers it, sets it down and reaches for a couple paper towels, putting one next to Peter's plate and using the other to wipe condensation off of his hand, folding it into his lap afterwards. "All of them," he admits, as Peter pulls a chair around to the other side of the island and sits down across from Danny. "It's been interesting hearing three different angles on it. Lydia's all books and hearsay, Stiles has the non-shifter experience, and Malia has the instincts. Between the three of them, my lunch hour and half of the boring classes are more Pack 101 than anything else." </p>
<p>Peter pushes the food over to Danny; some packs wait for the alpha to serve themself and eat first -- Talia did -- but Peter's always been of the opinion that the alpha should wait until everyone else in the pack has taken what they want as a sign that they're able to provide for everyone. Danny hesitates but soon starts to fill up his plate, and he begins eating as Peter gets his own sandwich and salad dished up. </p>
<p>For the next few minutes, it's quiet. Danny asks what kind of spices Peter used in the meatballs and gets up to refill both of their glasses, but for the majority of the meal, there's nothing but the sound of eating and the smell of contentment circling in spirals around the scents of beef and sausage, tomatoes, warm bread. </p>
<p>Once Danny's leaning back in his chair, having sopped up the last of the sauce from his plate with a chunk of mozzarella, he lets out a sigh and says, "I can see why Stiles moved in with you. I'm almost tempted." </p>
<p>"You're always welcome here," Peter says. "Granted, there's only one bedroom, so we all bunk down in the same bed and space is getting a bit tight; keep that in mind if you decide to evict yourself from your parents' home." He pauses, eyes narrowing the slightest bit as he sees the slope of Danny's shoulders, a little less pronounced, a line of tension making them rise, hunch in just <i>barely</i> enough for Peter to see. It's really not that noticeable but, combined with the sudden dive his scent had taken into something rotten and muddy, Peter doesn't hesitate to add, "I don't know if Stiles has said anything about it, but I'm in the process of finding an architect to build a pack house. It won't be ready to move into for a while, but once it is -- you'll have a room there. Everyone in the pack will." </p>
<p>Danny looks at him with wide eyes. His scent's cleared, though, the tension's ebbed away a little, and Danny reaches out for a slice of cheddar without hesitation. "Stiles hasn't said anything about it," he says. "He -- I think he gets it, y'know, in a weird way." Peter shakes his head, not following, but Danny shrugs one shoulder, tears the slice of cheese in half, then in half again, setting down the pieces on his empty plate. "My family hid this whole -- legacy, I guess, from me. Lydia told me Allison's family did the same thing to her and I get where she was going with the comparison, but it just feels different -- not that I said that to her," Danny's quick to add. "Lydia's -- she can be touchy when it comes to Allison."</p>
<p>Peter hums, thinks of the way Lydia and Allison came to the loft, the way Lydia looked at him after she listened to Talia's claws and Allison pulled her away, of the scream he could feel in his <i>bones</i> when the Argent girl died, of how Lydia sounds every time she mentions Allison and how she smells every time Stiles refuses to talk about the nogitsune. </p>
<p>"Why does it feel different?" he asks Danny, glass of water between his hands to keep him calm, the cold condensation sliding against his skin. </p>
<p>"Allison -- it wasn't something <i>in</i> her," Danny says. "She could've walked away and left it all behind. Now, Lydia -- Lydia's never said but I wouldn't be surprised if she feels the same way as I do, just a little. I mean, Stiles said that her grandma's a banshee? So her family could have warned her that there was a chance some kind of heritage would surface in her. And Stiles -- his mom was magic. Not like him, from what he says, but magic." He pauses, looks at Peter and with more honest confusion and less plaintive sadness, asks, "Why would all of our parents hide things like that from us? I don't get it." </p>
<p>Peter lets out a deep breath, picks up his glass and takes a couple deep swallows of water while he thinks of how to answer. A small part of him wishes Stiles was here; Stiles might not be any older than Danny but his soul's older, has faced so much grief and gained so much experience of the harsher things of life, that he might have advice to offer. He flicks at his bond with Stiles, feels it ring with the warmth of comfort and support, and tells himself that he wanted to bond with Danny one-on-one and he needs to be honest with his packmate, his youngest packmate, in a sense, because Danny's the newest to this world and the life it forces on everyone in it. </p>
<p>"As a shifter," he finally says, "I was born into a pack. I knew what I was even before I learned to speak. I don't know what your parents' reasons were, but I assume they were doing it to protect you. As well, we can't forget that for you, for Lydia, for Stiles, there was never any guarantee that you'd follow in their footsteps. There was a chance, however small, that you'd be able to live normal, human lives, without ever brushing up against the supernatural. Can you really blame your family for holding that hope?" </p>
<p>Peter pauses, sees and scents that Danny thinks that's a ridiculous reason. Peter happens to agree. Forewarned is forearmed and knowledge is power, gives options. He doesn't know how learning about her possible future as a banshee would've changed Lydia, but if Stiles had known what he was earlier, if there was even a possibility that someone might have been able to look at him and tell him, so many things could've been handled differently.</p>
<p>Of course, if that had happened, there's a great chance that Stiles wouldn't be the Spark he is today. </p>
<p>"After you and Lydia left Monday, Stiles told me that he knew you possessed -- not the gift," Peter says, "but the potential. That your father and grandfather had the same gift  as well but that theirs were small things." </p>
<p>"And mine's not small," Danny says. The smile on his face is tight, nothing happy. He lets out a breath, taps his fingers against the counter. "Stiles knew?" </p>
<p>Peter says, very cautiously -- but candidly, because Danny is pack and deserves the truth, "He knew about your family, yes. He never told me. He thought yours would be a small gift, too, if you even had enough to activate it. He -- we argued about it. I wanted him to tell me, to not keep secrets like that." He lets out a small laugh, half at himself for daring to question the Spark, half at Stiles for his complete dismissal of Danny's gift as anything important enough to remember. "He apologised to me. Did he apologise to you?" </p>
<p>Danny shakes his head. "No," he says. "He said that no one should be dragged into this world unless they want it and have some means of defending themselves, and if my gift was as small as he thought, and without being bound to a pack, I would've been in more danger. Lydia seemed to agree with him. I -- I told Jackson." Danny lifts his chin, looks like he's ready for Peter to be angry with him, smells like he's gearing up to defend himself. "He knows about this world and he's far enough away that he can't get involved. I needed a neutral point of view." </p>
<p>"Judging by the way some of our packmates talk about him, I never would've thought anyone could describe Jackson Whittemore as neutral," Peter notes. He makes sure he doesn't sound angry or look upset; his tone of voice, a little teasing, seems to put Danny back at ease enough to grin. That -- seeing Danny relax -- is worth the way his wolf growls, just a little, at the thought of one of their packmates going outside of the pack for reassurance. "What did he say?" </p>
<p>"That we're all idiots," Danny answers. "That he is, too. His parents are talking about bringing him back for senior year; apparently they've finally realised that he has his heart set on playing lacrosse at UNC and the odds of him getting on the team and getting any kind of scholarships go way down if he's coming from a school  overseas." </p>
<p>Peter considers that, finally nods, once. "Stiles and I have already discussed the possibility of inviting Jackson to join the pack if he comes back. I haven't spoken to the others about it, but I can't imagine that Derek or Lydia would have any issues with it, and Malia's never even met him. You should mention that he's welcome back in the territory -- if you want." </p>
<p>Danny sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. "That's -- actually, that's a huge relief. I know he was worried about having Scott as an alpha when Scott's more of a puppy than a wolf. He was worried about Stiles, too. They've never really -- saying they didn't get along is kind of an understatement. They've always fought with each other, ever since kindergarten. I think if it wasn't for me and Lydia, they would've been best friends; they're the kind of people who either go blood brothers or mortal enemies," he says with a laugh. "We were just unlucky. But hearing that Stiles never really loved Lydia kind of floored him, and I think that seeing you and Stiles together, that'll help, too. I mean, he's still not sure his parents will decide to come back to the States and, even if they do, if they'll come back to Beacon Hills, but Jackson's willing to try if you are. If we are." </p>
<p>Peter takes advantage of the natural lull in conversation to clear the counter, putting the leftover meatballs in a Tupperware dish. No doubt someone will eat them; Malia might like them, might even be convinced to eat them along with a bit of pasta, actually. With everything cleared up and the dishes left in the sink to deal with later, Peter liberates some ice cream from the freezer, doesn't bother with bowls in favour of just handing Danny a pint, taking one for himself as well. Peter gets spoons, sits back down, and asks, "How did things go with your grandfather last night?" </p>
<p>Danny digs his spoon in the ice cream with a huff. "Not well," he mutters. He takes one large bite, stiffens and winces as he gets a hit of brain freeze, but then, much like the ice cream's starting to do, thaws out a little. "I yelled. Asked why they never told me. Asked what the hell I'm supposed to do now." He shakes his head, puts one hand on his chest, says, "This week, ever since you brought me into the pack, I can -- I can <i>feel</i> something inside of me, here. It's more than the pack bonds, it's like -- some muscle aching that I didn't even know I had, right in the middle of me. Toothache, almost, always throbbing. I told him that and he said --." </p>
<p>He stops there, sets down his spoon. Peter opens his mouth to say something, offer comfort, but he's not quite sure what words would help. Stiles probably would, Lydia might, but Peter's always been a wolf, he has no idea what magic feels as it awakens. </p>
<p>"He said I couldn't -- that it wasn't possible," Danny goes on, eyes downcast. "I got <i>so mad</i>. I know the relationships Stiles and Lydia have with their parents aren't the best but my family's always been close. We've never, I dunno, really argued with each other and meant it? I mean, little things, sure, like my mom never remembers to buy toilet paper when we're running out and dad never rinses off the dishes before he puts them in the dishwasher, or when I used to sneak out to go to Jackson's, they'd ground me but they never got really angry with me. I was just -- it took me off guard, how angry it made me. Furious. I finally understood the look Jackson got in his eyes sometimes, like -- like just pure rage. I wanted to kill my grandpa. He's always believed me, I've never lied to him, and this one time I needed him, he just --."</p>
<p>Peter gets up, goes around to Danny and wraps one arm around him, tugs him close, lets Danny feel the rhythm of Peter's breathing, the steady beat of his heart, the comfort of an alpha offering reassurance to one of its betas. "What happened?" he asks, soft. </p>
<p>"He collects succulents," Danny says. "I guess it's the elemental in us; everyone in my dad's family has plants all over the place. When I got mad, they all grew about three feet -- tall <i>and</i> wide. I passed out afterwards. When I woke up, my dad was there and they were both just <i>staring</i> at me." There's a tensing of Danny's muscles, nothing that means he's moving but enough to signal his desire to move away, so Peter lets go, rests his hand on the back of Danny's neck for a moment before going back to his chair. "Apparently that was enough to convince them," Danny says, bitterly. "They told me a little last night and this morning and they're working out a series of lessons for the summer. Stuff about our family, what we can do, how to do it. They were pretty adamant that they can teach me but if they couldn't even tell I was --." He stops again, takes a deep breath and a couple sips of water before saying, "If they couldn't even tell I was active rather than just carrying the potential, if they couldn't tell that I had enough power to fuck with the plants when I've only known I have magic or whatever for a few days, how could they possibly think they can train me?"  </p>
<p>"If you want my advice?" Peter asks. He waits for Danny to look up at him, to nod, then says, "Spend time with them. Let them see how much they've hurt you. If you want the pack to meet them so they know you have people on your side, we can arrange something. And if their lessons aren't helping you, we'll find someone else to teach you." </p>
<p>Danny raises his eyebrows in surprise, asks, "You can do that? Just -- find someone else?" and picks up his spoon to scoop out another bite of ice cream. </p>
<p>Peter gives Danny a tired -- but still amused -- smile. "Stiles might be allied to some terrifying people, but it does mean he has connections all over the country. If he can't think of someone right off the bat, one of his people will."</p>
<p>"That would be -- thanks," Danny says. "Knowing I have options helps."</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>They talk a little about what Danny learned last night, how far back in his ancestry this gift goes, the types of things his father and grandfather can do -- not much, but enough to grow pretty much anything, enough to be in tune with the seasons. Danny didn't tell them a lot about the pack, he says, but they know that Danny has an alpha and packmates. </p>
<p>"They weren't happy about that," Danny says. "They think the family's lasted this long because we stay under the radar when it comes to hunters and other supernaturals. Personally, I think it's because no one else cares enough to come after people with such a small gift. My family's not obvious the way shifters are, and they don't really pose a threat the way some magicals do." Danny smells like something moving under leaves, like the way it feels on a cold day to tilt your face up to the sun and feel your cheeks warm even if the rest of you is flush from the chill. Peter makes a face and Danny says, "Yeah, I know. Pride goes before a fall, and all that. But I'm not wrong, am I?" </p>
<p>"No," Peter admits. "Not wrong. But while you're glorying in the knowledge of your power -- which you have every right to do -- and excited about the things you might be able to accomplish in the future, keep in mind that it <i>will</i> make you more of a threat. You're connected to powerful people. That will help keep the sensible hunters away, though there aren't many of those left these days, as well as jealous magicals and idiot alphas. We'll protect you as best we can but don't let it go <i>too</i> much to your head." </p>
<p>Danny laughs, rolls his eyes. "I have a feeling I have enough packmates and friends to make sure my ego gets brought back to earth every time it starts to grow a little too big." </p>
<p>Peter nods approvingly, says, "Good. We're here to protect and ground you, but also to support you. I don't know how easy it will be for you to trust in that, but I do ask that you try and remember." </p>
<p>"Unlike Lydia," Danny says, hint of his dry sense of humour coming through, "I'm used to working on a team. Believe me, I'll be depending on the pack with as much as I can, as often as I can. Your offer of housing earlier only cemented that." </p>
<p>That pleases Peter and the wolf inside of him. He asks if Danny has anything else he'd like to talk about, anything from last night or this morning he'd like to share, any concerns he has. When Danny thinks about for a moment and then says no, that he's gotten the majority of his thoughts off his chest, Peter says, "All right. Apparently my wayward mate has been giving you lessons in pack law, and he, Lydia, and Malia have been filling you in on things. But is there anything specific you'd like to ask? Things you don't feel comfortable asking them -- or asking at all? I won't be upset; I knew that bringing you into the pack without having had knowledge of this world would mean a crash course, so I won't be offended if there's anything you want to know that you haven't gotten answers to yet." </p>
<p>Danny blows a breath out, says, "Shit. There's -- the others have been so good about answering things but there are still so many; it's like they answer one question and the way they answer it triggers a dozen more questions. I don't even know where to -- okay. First question. What is Stiles and why is that important?" That's not where Peter thought Danny would start. He says as much and Danny shrugs, says, "You became an alpha because of Stiles, you won't go against him when he disagrees with you, and he acts more like a wolf than the rest of us humans -- he can hear things you can and I can't, sometimes, and he's tactile like you and Malia, and Malia practically hangs on every word he says." </p>
<p>"Observant," Peter says. "Good. You'll learn a lot just by watching all of us interact." He pauses, asks, "Has anyone noticed how much of a chameleon you are?" </p>
<p>"Not really," Danny says, grinning. "But that's the point of being a chameleon, right? Now, come on, answer before I start thinking you're trying to change the subject." </p>
<p>Peter nods -- rolls his eyes but he does nod as well. "Stiles is what's known as a Spark," he says. He knows that the volume of his voice has gone quiet, his tone reverent, like he's telling stories in church. "Sparks are -- when it comes to magic users, Sparks are the top of the pyramid. They <i>are</i> magic; there's more magic in one of Stiles' trimmed toenails than there is in the strongest mage or elemental. They breathe magic, they change the world just by thinking about it. They're pure power made human, the closest thing to gods that walk the earth." </p>
<p>Danny stares at Peter with wide eyes. "<i>Stiles</i>?" he says, like he doesn't believe it. He sits there, takes it in, and his scent goes thoughtful, filled with a kind of calculation that Peter's relieved to see. "This is why he has powerful allies. Did you know he was a Spark when you bit him?" </p>
<p>"Yes," Peter says. "That's part of the reason I bit him now. I had been waiting until he was older, possibly had a degree under his belt, but it became something of a necessity." Danny frowns, shakes his head even as he's digging a chunk of cookie dough out of the pint of ice cream. Peter sighs, pushes his ice cream away and sets his elbows on the counter. "What did Lydia tell you about nogitsune?" </p>
<p>Danny makes a face as if to say he's not sure how the subject's connected. "There was a lot of -- she was more angry than anything. She told me that a nogitsune's a type of kitsune but dark, obsessed with chaos and pain and death. From what she's said, I assume Kira's mom brought the nogitsune to Beacon Hills but I don't know when or why. When the nogitsune got loose, it ended up possessing Stiles and used him to kill Allison and Aiden, blow up the sheriff's station, set that trap for Coach. She and Scott went into Stiles' mind, forced Stiles and the fox to split; it kidnapped her when that happened." Danny shrugs one shoulder, finishes up by saying, "Scott bit it, Kira shoved a katana through its chest, and it died. Why?" </p>
<p>Peter rests his chin in the palm of one hand, eyes fixed on the way water's pooling on the counter around the bottom of Danny's ice cream. "When Stiles and the nogitsune split, Stiles' body wasn't -- stable. It was more magical than human." Peter flicks his up to meet Danny's gaze, says, "He needed a bond to stabilise him. He asked me to be his anchor." </p>
<p>Danny opens his mouth, closes it again, gives Peter a narrow-eyed, thoughtful look. "Something about the time Stiles was possessed -- it gave him a better idea of what the nogitsune is. Was, I mean. That's why he can miss it?" Peter nods. "That's why it's so personal to him." Danny snorts, says, "I guess sharing your mind and body with something else would be personal. So. Stiles was starting to destabilise, he told you he was a Spark and asked you for a bond, you became an alpha, and then you mated him." A breath pushes out hard from between Danny's teeth and he shakes his head a couple times. "Fuck. Okay. So Stiles is, like, a <i>huge</i> reason you're even an alpha. Don't be offended by this, but -- is this your pack or is it Stiles'?"</p>
<p>Peter's eyes go red, growl rumbling up his throat. It's so close to Kristian's accusation that it takes Peter a long moment of reminding the wolf that Danny is <i>theirs</i> and he's too new to understand how provocative that question really is. He wrestles the wolf under control, finally looks at Danny and says, with more than an edge of the wolf riding his words, "It's mine." He takes a few more deep breaths. "I'm not going to apologise for how I reacted. Asking an alpha if they truly run their pack is -- just, don't do that to any other alpha, no matter what you think privately, okay?" </p>
<p>"Okay," Danny says, agreeing easily. "But Stiles is this all-powerful creature of pure magic, right? He'll listen to you? Obey you as his alpha?" </p>
<p>"When he feels like it," Peter says. "When it comes to wolf things, yes. In pack politics, yes. He's not just a Spark, he's my mate and my emissary; he'll fulfill those roles when I need him to. In magic things, in all those alliances he has across the country -- that's when he'll take the lead." </p>
<p>Danny licks his lips, asks, carefully, "Your relationship?" </p>
<p>Peter laughs as he sits back up. "Tumultuous. Maybe even volatile," he admits. "Suffice to say that we're still working it out. But we <i>are</i> working on it. It's a big adjustment for me to have someone at my side at all, and then for that someone to be Stiles? And Stiles isn't used to having a pack around to support him. He's learning what it's like to have people <i>he</i> can trust, who'll make him a priority in their lives. He's never had that before and neither have I. A lot of this is new for both of us." </p>
<p>"Well, not that you need the confirmation," Danny says, "but from what Stiles says, you're doing a great job. And I have to admit, from the way he gets this stupidly-in-love look on his face every time he mentions you and the way Malia constantly chides him for smelling so gross every time someone brings you up, I'm kind of jealous." </p>
<p>That surprises Peter. The wolf has its ears down flat, teeth bared, unwilling to let even one of its pack think of Stiles with any kind of jealousy, but Peter asks, "Why?" </p>
<p>"Ethan and I broke up a while back," Danny says. "It's been a while since I've gotten laid. More than that, it's been a while since I've been in love with anyone -- not the kind of love you and Stiles have, but -- puppy love, I guess. The starry-eyed kind of love. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a romantic and I look at you two and I see something that I want." He makes a face, smells wistful, yearning, though he shakes it off quick enough. "I'd rather not have Ethan in the pack, if it's all the same to the rest of you."</p>
<p>Peter bares his fangs, eyes flashing red, and asks, "Why not? He didn't do something to you, did he? He didn't hurt you?" </p>
<p>Danny laughs, says, "Calm down, alpha. He never did anything to me that I didn't want him to. Nah, it's just -- Ethan doesn't want to stay. He's planning on heading out of town as soon as school lets out for the summer and  I think that'd be the best for everyone. He and I, we weren't anything serious, but from what Lydia's said, what Stiles <i>hasn't</i> said, I don't think it'd be a good idea. I mean, if that was even on the table."</p>
<p>"I was going to leave it up to Derek," Peter says. "But if you don't want him, then I won't offer. Honestly, I don't much care for having another alpha in the pack; if he'd wanted to stay and chose to take us up on the offer of pack bonds, I'd make him give up his alpha spark. From what the rest of you have said, I think that would be something unacceptable to him." </p>
<p>"I don't know," Danny says. "He hasn't said -- until a couple days ago, he still thought I didn't know anything about," and he gestures, "everything -- but I think --. When Aiden died, I think Ethan inherited his spark. Or -- it was split between the two of them, maybe, and now that Ethan's the only one left, what was in Aiden went to him? Is that even possible?" </p>
<p>Peter sits back in his chair, looks up at the ceiling. Possible? Anything in this world is possible. Twins possessing a split alpha spark would explain their strange merging ability, but they would've had to kill the same alpha at the same time and in all of Peter's experience, he's never heard of an alpha spark willingly splitting rather than just choosing one beta to inhabit. There haven't even been any legends about it, nothing in the oldest of stories -- though, again, if more wolves knew that splitting an alpha spark is possible, then perhaps the incidence rate of intra-pack coups would be more prevalent. It wouldn't be one beta going against their alpha in that circumstance, it would be two, and those odds are infinitely more survivable. </p>
<p>"I wouldn't rule it out entirely," Peter says, turning his gaze back to Danny. "It's more likely that Aiden's spark burned out or went into some wolf related to their previous pack, perhaps even a beta he may have turned while he was on the road with Deucalion. If it was shared, though, and now Ethan has his brother's portion --." He stops, shakes his head. He can feel -- imprints, probably, is the best word, from all the alphas who previously held the sparks within him. If Ethan's constantly feeling the ghost remnant of his twin, that might be enough to have him finding the fastest way possible to get rid of the entire spark just to rid himself from feeling the constant memory of Aiden. Peter lets out a deep breath, says, "Regardless. If Ethan leaves this summer, then that solves the question of pack very neatly. Right. What else?" </p>
<p>Danny leans forward and speaks, though he's hesitant, picking through his words carefully. "Where do you see me in this pack?" Peter cocks an eyebrow in question and Danny says, "Derek's your second and Malia said she's your executioner, which -- I didn't even know there was that kind of place. It makes sense, and choosing Malia makes sense. Stiles is your mate and emissary, which Lydia kind of explained as a magic user who also serves as diplomat and researcher and medic, kind of an all-in-one bank of knowledge and power. Considering everything you said already about Stiles being a Spark, I assume that makes us pretty much the most powerful pack in the country?" </p>
<p>Peter tilts his hand back and forth, says, "Yes and no. What we are, each of us and all together, is strong. But you and Lydia are untrained, Derek and Malia are uneducated, and Stiles is --." He pauses there, tries to decide how to say this delicately, settles on asking Danny a completely rhetorical -- and unanswerable -- question. "Will Stiles come to our defense if needed? Yes, but it's that 'if needed' part that has to be remembered. He's had his Spark for months and didn't step in with Jackson, nor with the alpha pack and the darach, not even when the nogitsune possessed him. He places a high value on free will and choice, not might and power. It's possible that, depending on the threat, he'll join us with his human talents, not the Spark magic he possesses."  </p>
<p>Danny looks as though he's going to question that, but he very obviously shelves it for later. Peter wonders if he's going to ask Stiles about what Peter's said, or Lydia, or even his own family; any and all would be good, if wildly differing, sources of information. Instead, Danny says, "With all that, then, where do you see me fitting in? You've got the main spots filled, you've got three born shifters, one Spark, whatever Lydia is. Malia wants to invite Kira, which means a kitsune as well. Until I get my magic under control, until I know what I'm capable of, and even after that, where do I fit?" </p>
<p>It's a good question, and Danny's asking it sooner than Peter had expected. He's had a chance to discuss this with Derek, only a little bit with Stiles, not at all with the others, but Peter's the alpha and Danny is <i>his</i>, now. </p>
<p>"I'd like to train you in pack politics," Peter says. Danny blinks. "Stiles is -- because of what he is, it has the potential to make some of his more public emissary duties a little -- tense. I'd like for Stiles to teach you how to be an emissary, with an eye to undergoing the emissary rites with me." </p>
<p>"A back-up? To <i>Stiles</i>?" Danny asks. "We literally just got done talking about how he's practically a god; what do either of you need a second emissary for?" He narrows his eyes, cocks his head to the side, and Peter can practically <i>smell</i> how fast he's putting clues together. "The other night when we were all here," he says, slowly, "when Derek said that magic-users were Stiles' kin and he freaked out about it. Other magicals don't like Stiles?" He stops, shakes his head, corrects himself. "No, they don't like <i>Sparks</i>. But they -- does that even matter when Stiles has that much power? If they don't like him, he could just -- I dunno, ignore them? Bat them aside? Work around them? There's so many options; going for the 'second emissary' one seems like overkill."</p>
<p>Peter makes a face, ceding the point to Danny. It seems insane and any other alpha would both scoff at the idea of needing a second emissary when the first one is a Spark <i>and</i> at the thought of Peter assuming he's powerful enough to bond and keep two emissaries when the demand for well-trained, thoughtful, sly, honourable emissaries has increased greatly in recent years. "The reaction of other magic-users to Stiles is a big point. What he is -- being a Spark, one with alliance and treaties all over the country and even into other dimensions, means that he's going to be away from the pack, too, when most emissaries rarely leave their alpha's territory. More than that -- and most importantly -- Stiles and I formed a spontaneous emissary bond. Spontaneity, in this case, means that our bond can be," and Peter pauses, searches for a word, eventually settles on, "unpredictable. I haven't had to pull on it yet and I honestly don't know what'll happen when I do. A grounded bond, done through the correct procedures, should be much more reliable. As well, you're insightful, intelligent, and I believe that, even though I haven't seen it yet, there's a great deal of cunning and artistry in you. I'd like to see all of those traits used to their fullest extents and I believe that could best be done in the position of emissary." </p>
<p>"Stiles never said anything about that," Danny says, after a minute. "He won't be upset?" </p>
<p>Peter thinks back to Kristian, to the cats, to the way Stiles curled into Peter in a dark room and asked for peace. "No," Peter says. "I really don't think he will." He lets out a deep breath and sits forward a little, arms on the counter, hands clasped together lightly. "It would be a crime to waste your talents," he says. "No matter what role you choose in this pack, I'd like to make sure you have every opportunity to do what <i>you</i> want. Where do <i>you</i> see yourself?"</p>
<p>Danny gives Peter a grin brimming with delight and says, "Politics sounds good. But -- how'd you know?" </p>
<p>"You referenced Machiavelli at the loft," Peter says, "and you sounded <i>excited</i> about it."</p>
<p>That makes Danny laugh and lean back, more relaxed that Peter's seen him all afternoon, maybe even the most since they met. "Yeah," he admits. "I'm the only one I know that gets pissed off at <i>Game of Thrones</i> for showing more sex than council meetings." </p>
<p>Peter makes a noise, something amused and interested at the same time. "I read the first few books before the fire," he says. "Who's your favourite character?" </p>
<p>"Ooh, tough question," Danny says. He huffs out a breath, thinks for a moment. "It's gotta be Varys. There's something about the spy rings he runs that I just really admire. Plus, he's never afraid to push people to underestimate him. They very rarely <i>do</i>, but I like that he tries. Who's yours?" </p>
<p>"I'm far behind," Peter warns, "so I don't know how the storylines turn out, but I used to think Tyrion Lannister would be my choice." Danny's face makes an odd expression and his scent goes cool with contemplation and thought, no doubt trying to put together the things in Tyrion that Peter identifies with: a sister who was the family's ideal, his own talents going unrecognised, resented by his parents, someone who relies on wit and cunning. "Now? I'm not sure."</p>
<p>Danny snorts, takes a sip of water. "Please don't hurt me for saying this, but -- Sansa." Peter's not sure how to take that but Danny says, "You haven't seen the show or read the later books. Trust me. While I don't think you've ever been as naive as she was, you've both gone through <i>shit</i> and ended up -- well. Spoilers. I don't wanna give away too much."</p>
<p>Peter gives Danny a look, one which just makes Danny burst out laughing. Inwardly, Peter's pleased at the way this has turned out and he'll even admit the comparison intrigues him. He'll have to put a priority on finishing the books and watching the series to see if Danny's right.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>They talk a little more, mostly about other books and movies Danny thinks Peter should catch up on, a little more about Danny's family, and Peter promises to have Stiles deliver the appropriate emissary-related books to Danny at school once Peter has time to retrieve them from the vault. </p>
<p>They're in the middle of a casual discussion about where Danny wants to go to university -- he's considering a number of schools, but Johns Hopkins is high on the list and it's in Jackson's top five as well -- or if he even will, since he's already being headhunted by a whole number of alphabet agencies thanks to his hacking prowess. "Apparently they don't need a recruit to have a degree if they've already hacked through their firewalls and into their databases," Danny says, ruefully. "It's put me on their radar and I'm never getting off, but if they're willing to pay me to hack for them and they'd cover the cost of a college degree, why not? It's not like -- " He stops as his phone rings, looks at the caller ID and groans. "My dad," he tells Peter. "Sorry, I gotta take this." </p>
<p>Peter gestures for him to answer, takes the opportunity to put the ice cream back in the freezer and throw the sheets and pillowcases from the washer into the dryer. He keeps one ear on the conversation and when it sounds like it's winding up, he heads for the kitchen, gets there in time to hear Danny says, "Yes, sir. I'm leaving now." </p>
<p>Danny ends the call, shoves his phone in his back pocket and lets out a deep breath. He turns around to face Peter but before he can say anything, Peter tells him, "It's all right. But keep in mind what I said before. If you need me to come over and talk to them, or Stiles and Lydia to come over and blow something up, we can, and if you need a place to hide for a while, you're always welcome here. You're pack." </p>
<p>"Thanks, alpha," Danny says, and though his scent's grown a layer of tension since the phone call, it's still not as bad as it was when he walked in the front door. With Peter's words, a small hint of confidence and strength, like old, rooted live oaks, takes seed in and among the sweet apple cider scent of self-assurance. "I appreciate that."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Chapter 25</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's moving from mid-afternoon to late-afternoon when Danny leaves, heading back home and leaving the townhouse quiet again apart from the hum of the dryer. Peter cleans up, loading the dishwasher, making the bed, adding a note to his list to make another trip to the vault to pick up the books he promised Danny. He gets chicken thighs out of the freezer and sets the package in the sink to thaw, then sits down with his laptop. </p><p>--</p><p>An hour later and with his inbox empty, Peter decides that enough's enough. The pull to Stiles is sitting high in his chest, an ache that will have the wolf whining the moment it gets any stronger. With it being the weekend and Stiles with pack, rather than at school or somewhere else Peter can't follow, ignoring the yearning just to prove that he <i>can</i> is a matter of pride; while Peter's pride is an integral part of himself, there's no need to punish himself this time. He stands up, stretches, lets out a groan as something in his lower back pops. He might be a wolf but he's still getting older and sitting down without moving for an hour isn't any good for him. </p><p>Peter makes sure the house is clean, puts his shoes on, and leaves. He drives over to the loft, parks a couple spaces down from where Derek's got the hood of the Jeep propped open, leaning over and in. Stiles has one hip propped against the side of the Jeep, watching Derek with eagle eyes and fiddling with a pair of scissors. To Peter's surprise, Malia's here as well, stretched out on the ground, lying on her back but with her head tilted towards the Jeep. She's apparently listening to Stiles rambling about -- something, though he stops as soon as Peter gets out of the car, so Peter's not sure what, precisely, they'd been talking about. </p><p>Peter goes over to Stiles first, wolf rumbling happily at the way Stiles turns to meet Peter, so easily sliding into Peter's hold, reciprocating the soft kiss Peter lays on Stiles' lips. </p><p>"How'd lunch go?" Stiles asks. "I didn't expect to see you so soon." </p><p>"Well, I think," Peter replies. "Though Danny said you've been telling stories instead of paying attention to your classes. Pack 101, he called it." </p><p>Stiles laughs, says, "Don't be fooled by that charming smile of his. He instigated it more than half the time. 'Stiles, what about this,' and 'Lydia, what about that,' and even, once or twice, 'So, Malia, why do you do x, y, and z?' Our Danny possesses an insatiable curiosity once he gets interested in a topic." </p><p>"It'll do him well," Peter says. He brushes his cheek over Stiles', then lets go and stands next to Derek for a moment, pressing their sides together as he peers into the engine. "How's it going?" </p><p>Derek snorts, straightens up and picks up a rag, wipes off his hands. It doesn't help much, does more to spread the grease and oil over his fingers than anything, which Derek seems to realise after a moment, huffing and tossing the rag to the ground. "Haven't even started yet," he says. "I've been tearing duct tape off of everything so I can get to the screws and bolts." He gestures to the ground and Peter looks; he hadn't noticed the giant ball of discarded tape when he'd pulled in but he whistles now. "That's not even all of it," Derek grumps. "Seriously, Stiles, I don't know how you kept this thing running; it's gotta be just eight rolls of duct tape and a few hoses." </p><p>Stiles shrugs one shoulder, says, "That's been good enough for me," but he smells of affection and some no small amount of gleeful teasing, so Peter just rolls his eyes, brushes his hand down Derek's back, then moves to sit down next to Malia. </p><p>Before Peter can scent Malia, she wriggles a little and ends up with her head in Peter's lap, neck stretched out to give him room to wrap his hand around her throat. He does, stifles a smile when she whines in relief at the touch and adjusts to curl up, around, and over Peter's legs in some arrangement that looks vaguely pretzel-like and hugely uncomfortable. Still, she smells of comfort and affection, the clean musk of a satisfied coyote, so Peter leaves it be. </p><p>"What were you three talking about before I got here?" Peter asks, when it seems clear that Stiles isn't going to pick back up where he left off.</p><p>"Pack law, a little," Derek says. His shoulders have gone stiff and his scent's got little blooms of hesitation around the edges of it; Peter's not sure why, not until he sees the way Derek looks at Stiles, moving his head just the slightest bit to keep any sight of his face away from Peter. </p><p>Peter hums, runs his hands through Malia's hair, and says, idly, "Alphas? A good place to start. I'm sorry to have interrupted -- not sorry to be here, though." </p><p>Stiles makes a little noise at that and moves around the Jeep to stand next to Derek, close enough that Peter can't see any space between Stiles and Derek. That has Derek relaxing, even laughing when Stiles reaches in and tries to help him pull another piece of tape off of something. "We're not sorry you're here, alpha," Stiles says. "But what would <i>you</i> say are the, hmm, top three attributes of a good alpha? I want to see how well your top three and mine mesh." </p><p>Oh, now <i>that's</i> interesting. Peter leans forward, thinks for a minute. "Loyalty to pack," he says. "First and foremost is loyalty to one's own wolf, but loyalty to pack runs a very close second. Some alphas would list those the other way around and some might even prioritise the secrecy of our world over both but I feel that an alpha can't take care of their pack -- provision, comfort, protection, leadership, all of those qualities, including maintaining the security of the supernatural secret -- if they stifle the wolf inside of them. If they don't know their own wolf, how can they know the wolves of their packmates? Or the coyotes of their packmates," he amends, looking down at Malia. "To ignore who they are, what they are, or -- not even ignore it, necessarily, but push it to the side, discount its instincts, pretend to be fully human -- no pack deserves that kind of alpha. The pack bonds -- if there even are bonds -- would be all out of order, the pack wouldn't be safe, and people new to the pack would be learning the wrong kinds of things and taking to heart the wrong kind of lessons." </p><p>Peter stops there and Stiles seems to follow his thoughts, to let that sit, to give Derek -- and Malia, but this conversation is clearly directed more at Derek -- time to take it in and chew it over. </p><p>"And third?" Derek finally asks. </p><p>"A good alpha leads," Peter says, simply. "Takes in the advice of the pack, listens to counsel from mate or emissary, but the alpha is the final word. They bear the burden of responsibility. To be a good leader means to enforce the hierarchy and, if necessary, take the fall when it comes. Praise is to be shared around but blame is on the alpha's shoulders." </p><p>Derek lets out a deep breath but doesn't say anything, though his chemosignals are going riotous, cycling through so many emotions that it's giving Peter a headache. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, Derek's finally opening his eyes to the reality of his family, that Talia wasn't a good alpha, that Laura wasn't a good alpha, that Peter's trying to be better than both of them. </p><p>Malia shifts enough to look at Derek and she frowns, sits up. "What is it?" she asks, blunt as ever. </p><p>Stiles tells Derek he doesn't have to answer, gives Malia a look that has her easily tilting her head to one side to show Stiles her throat, but Derek says, "Laura always -- Laura said that an alpha's first priority was to be the face of the pack. She said that --." He stops, abrupt, and Peter thinks he can hear Derek swallow, even from over here. Derek shakes his head, steps back from the Jeep and slams the hood closed. "I think it's ready to be moved inside," he says. "I can start taking it apart on Monday; I've cleared enough of the tape out for that. I'm gonna go clean up." </p><p>He stalks off, clearly expecting someone to stop him; when no one does, and before he's completely out of sight, he's already relaxed a little. </p><p>"I don't like it when he talks about Laura," Malia says, as Stiles comes over to where she and Peter are sitting and collapses in a heap next to them. "He always sounds mad. Smells upset. He should forget about her and move on. He has a new alpha now, a better one." </p><p>Stiles digs his fingers into Malia's hair, scratches at her scalp a little. "Laura was his big sister," Stiles says, gently. "And his alpha for six years, not to mention his only pack during that time. She was the only one who escaped the fire with him, in the same ways he did. There's a lot of guilt and fear and anger bound up with his feelings about Laura. It's only natural for that to take a while to let go of until he only remembers the good stuff. There wasn't," Stiles says, sounding and smelling like wide open seas during storms, all salt water and stinging wind and lightning, "a lot of good for Derek, for a long time." </p><p>Malia huffs. "He has us now," she says. "He better get over it or he'll hurt Peter." </p><p>"No," Peter says, "he won't. I understand where he's coming from. The Hales --," and he pauses, lets out a deep breath, "-- I think you should be glad you weren't raised with us," he finally settles on saying. "The Hales became a pretty fucked-up mess over the last few decades. My parents started the process and my sister continued in their vein. I suppose we're all lucky Laura didn't end up worse. But Derek doesn't know about everything that happened, or why, or what it did to -- to bend us all out of alignment. The more he learns, the more he'll understand." </p><p>Malia tilts her head to look up at him, eyes gone blue, and she says, "You made him your second. You still think that was a good decision?" </p><p>Peter doesn't even think before he responds, says, "Yes," without hesitation.</p><p>Malia harrumphs but closes her eyes. "Okay, alpha," she says. </p><p>--</p><p>Derek comes back about twenty minutes later, during an argument that Peter and Stiles are having about what to make for dinner. He looks tense but, when Stiles throws him an absent grin in the middle of pressing his point about a sweet-and-sour honey-soy marinade and deriding Peter's suggestion of some type of mushroom cream sauce, and Peter merely asks what Derek thinks, Derek's tension starts to subside. </p><p>"Mushroom," he says. Stiles opens his mouth, offended and clearly ready to squawk, but Derek adds, "Then we can have roasted vegetables and rice," and Stiles instantly deflates. </p><p>"Yeah," Stiles says. "Brown rice. That would be healthier than noodles, even the whole wheat spaghetti." He purses his lips, admits, "I could go for some crispy broccoli and brussel sprouts, actually. Ugh, <i>fine</i>. Peter, you win, but only 'cause Derek helped." </p><p>Peter looks to Derek, says, "Thank you. We'll take it?" Derek nods, so Peter pokes Malia's side a few times, tries to hold back a laugh at the grumbling and avoid the claws that swat at him, tells her to get moving and that they need to start working on dinner if they want to eat anytime soon. Malia stands up for that and Peter does as well, the two of them taking Stiles' hands when he reaches out for help and tugging until he's upright as well. </p><p>"I'll ride with Derek," Stiles says, and brushes his cheek against Peter's, then Malia's, before going over to Derek and throwing one arm around Derek's shoulders. "I'll even volunteer to drive." </p><p>"No chance," Derek snaps back, easily and without heat, elbowing Stiles off of him. Stiles makes a big production of being hurt, and as Derek walks off to the Camaro, Stiles follows him, loudly and extravagantly complaining about his "fatal injury, Derek, come on, please let me drive? It's the last request of a dying man; your pointy elbow is going to <i>kill me dead</i>."</p><p>Peter watches them go, eyes narrowed, because he knows Stiles has an ulterior motive. He's just not sure what it is -- though he thinks it has something to do with whatever Stiles was talking about before Peter arrived. </p><p>"Chicken, huh," Malia says, standing next to Peter. </p><p>"We can sneak some bacon in the sauce," Peter promises. "And some beef stock." </p><p>Malia makes a noise of reluctant approval and tells Peter, "We should get going." </p><p>"Yeah," Peter says, ruffling Malia's hair and heading for the car. He glances, once more, in the direction of Derek and Stiles, and then shakes it off. </p><p>--</p><p>Derek and Stiles beat them back to the townhouse. When Peter walks inside, Malia trailing at his heels, he hears the shower going upstairs and hears someone puttering around in the kitchen. He takes off his shoes and goes into the kitchen to see a pile of things on the counter and Stiles chopping florets off a head of broccoli. Malia peers around Peter's arm and must see the bacon; she makes a noise and darts past Peter, grabs a few slices, and takes them to the couch where she sits down to unlace her boots. </p><p>"Make yourself useful, alpha," Stiles says, twisting around and leaning back to give Peter a kiss. "I've already got the mushrooms chopped and water boiling for the rice." </p><p>Peter snorts, looks over the items out on the counter, and raises an eyebrow when he sees most of the ingredients for the sauce already measured and waiting. "How long have you been home?" </p><p>Stiles laughs, says, "Not long. Ten minutes at most, maybe? But I'm very motivated for food. I picked up wraps for lunch and they were good, don't get me wrong, but I'm hungry." He hip-checks Peter, glances around Peter at Malia, and leans in close to murmur, "Guess I burned more calories than I thought this morning. Still trying to recover." </p><p>Peter shakes his head but doesn't stop his eyes from flaring red as the scent of a high summer afternoon, all sticky sweat and melting sugar, floods out of his mate in long, languorous, sweeping waves. He brushes his lips against Stiles', sets one hand on Stiles' hip, and Stiles lets the broccoli and the knife drop onto the cutting board. Stiles  turns, presses into Peter, one hand sliding up the back of Peter's neck to scratch nails across Peter's scalp, the other digging into one of Peter's back pockets. Stiles is the one to deepen the kiss, to part his lips and invite Peter inside but Peter doesn't hesitate, plundering Stiles' mouth with a need that borders on violence.  </p><p>He's ready to take Stiles right here, right now, but Stiles pulls back from with a stumble, lays Spark-white eyes on him. Peter's gaze catches on Stiles' swollen lips, on the bulge pressing against the front of Stiles' jeans, of the way his bite mark, on Stiles' neck, looks freshly made, a deep, glaring red that matches the colour of his own eyes. He doesn't understand why Stiles pulled back, takes one step to close the distance between them and pull Stiles close again. </p><p>Stiles takes another step back, though, and holds up his hands. "We promised our pack dinner, Peter," he says. "Food first." </p><p>Peter closes his eyes, hands clenching into fists. This all-consuming need for Stiles is -- is something he wouldn't change for the world because he knows <i>why</i> it's there, knows that it's because Stiles is his mate, is <i>his</i>, but he has to get a handle on it. It's just -- a more irresistible draw than he'd anticipated. </p><p>"Hey, Peter, it's okay, hey," Stiles says, coming close again, hands taking Peter's, gently stroking the back of Peter's hands to uncurl them from the fists they'd formed into. Once they've straightened out, Stiles laces their fingers together, squeezes a little. "I'm sorry, wolf. I shouldn't have pushed. My fault, okay?" </p><p>"No apologies," Peter says. His voice is harsh, rasping, and the strangeness of it rattles him enough to throw him out of the urge to pounce and fuck. He opens his eyes, gives Stiles a wry smile. "No one's fault." </p><p>Stiles leans in, presses his forehead to Peter's. He's still flushed, still reeks of arousal, but when Peter whines -- just a little, barely enough to hear -- Stiles does something to his scent to cleanse it of sex, until the only thing left is the overwhelming Spark-scent of lemon and kudzu. "I have a thought," Stiles says. "When we were in New Orleans, you said mating frenzy. Every time now, no matter how it starts, it feels like it did then. Did we just not work it out of our systems?"</p><p>Peter pulls back, studies his mate as his mind whirls. Mating frenzies are -- can be, anyway, for alphas -- violent, something halfway between the need for sex and the need for food, weighed down with bites and blood and the unending urge to <i>take</i>. That's what Peter's heard, at least. Talia never told him when it was like when she and her husband mated but they went away to a little den Talia built at the far end of their territory and didn't come back for a week. Peter and Stiles have been mated for almost two weeks but there's been other things stopping them from feeding on each other the way the books and stories and legends have always made it sound. </p><p>He grins at Stiles, feels confusion slither down the bond between them, and Peter says, "You may be right, and that may solve the problem. We'll just have to keep a lid on it until the honeymoon." </p><p>Stiles' eyes, a bright, gleaming white, seem to somehow darken, and the smile that crosses his lips is nothing so much as pure enticement to the violence lingering inside of Peter. "I do still owe you that -- uh, <i>thing</i>," he says, censoring his words as Derek's footsteps can be heard coming down the stairs. </p><p>Peter appreciates Stiles' restraint; even apart from sparing Derek, he thinks that hearing Stiles say the word 'fuck' right now would have Peter lofting Stiles over a shoulder and scrambling upstairs for the privacy of the bedroom's wards. "Yes, you do," Peter says, instead. "I'm gonna hold you to that. It'll be a <i>splendid</i> way to -- hm. Let loose?" </p><p>Stiles laughs, lets Peter's hands slip out of his only so he can gently punch Peter on the shoulder. "Incorrigible," Stiles says. </p><p>"Oooh, studying for your SATs?" Peter teases, letting Stiles go back to the broccoli while he starts chopping up the bacon. </p><p>"You're late," Stiles replies, as Derek comes into the kitchen. "We took those back in December. That's one of the only words that stuck." </p><p>Derek makes a noise of amused disagreement, says, "I'm pretty sure you knew that one already. Someone <i>must</i> have called you that before December." </p><p>Stiles's scent turns melancholic, and he nods. "Tara," he says. "One of my dad's deputies. She always had a different word for me. Candy, too." He gives Derek and Peter a tight smile, then drops his gaze down to focus on the broccoli. </p><p>Peter watches him for a moment, the fast, sure movements, the flash of silver every time Stiles lifts the blade and it catches the light. Tara -- Peter doesn't recognise the name. He looks at Derek, then, and takes in the scent coming from Derek: regret, self-loathing, guilt. Ah. Tara must have been the deputy who died at the hands of that fucking darach. </p><p>Sometimes Peter forgets how many people that knew Stiles as a child have died in the last couple of years. </p><p>"Isn't December a little early for the SATs?" Peter asks.</p><p>"For most people," Stiles says. "Not for friends of a Lydia Martin intent on early acceptance to a whole swath of Ivies. And, y'know, to be honest, it's a good thing she badgered us into taking them early while things were quiet. Relatively quiet." </p><p>Malia slinks up next to Derek, leans against him and reaches out for the bacon that Peter's chopping into small pieces. "Dad wants to get me signed up for them," she says. "Kira said we should go the same day. Something about having moral support. She said that Scott needs to take them, too. Does Danny?"</p><p>Stiles shakes his head, says, "Nah, Danny went with me and Lyds. She tried to get Scott to do it too, but he blew it off." Stiles laughs, something that Peter thinks is more to himself than in any kind of real amusement, adds, "Like Scott usually does. I think it's just the --." Stiles stops, looks at Malia, who meets his gaze and raises an eyebrow when he doesn't immediately finish his sentence. </p><p>Peter elbows Stiles, says, "Tell us." </p><p>Stiles looks at Peter and says, in a tone much more casual than his scent might indicate, "I think it's just the shifters in town who still have to do their SATs." He pauses, eyes narrowed in thought. "They do this thing, now, on test day," he says, as if his mind is eight steps ahead of what he's actually saying, piecing things together based on six wildly disparate clues and an instinct for finding connections that can't be taught. "Fingerprints. Used to be we'd just have to show ID, but now -- fingerprinting." </p><p>"Why does that make you smell like you have a theory about something?" Derek asks, clearly having caught on to what Peter did. His eyes narrow and Malia's nostrils flare as she mirrors his expression, leaning forward a little like she's trying to catch the same scent Stiles did. </p><p>Stiles glances at Derek but then fixes his eyes on Peter. "Back in the mid-2000s," he says, slowly, "there was an incidence of hallucinations at one of the high schools outside of Tampa. They'd had a forensics person from one of the local police departments in, talking about procedures, processes, some kind of career day thing, I think. One of Tía Mari's students was in that class -- Maritza, the <i>bruja</i> over <i>la Florida</i>," he says in an aside to Derek, who blanches, and Malia, who shakes her head in dismissal. "They decided it was some kind of gas leak but the same thing happened once in Nebraska and once in Louisiana; Mari was on it because her student had a much more severe response than anyone else in the class, and after the fourth time it happened -- in Idaho, that time -- Mari asked the head magical and shifter presences in each territory to keep an eye out for similar things." </p><p>Peter tilts his head, asks, "What happened in Idaho?" </p><p>"Three of the students were shifters," Stiles says, bluntly, "and they all died. I think the coven said -- a week later? Ten days? It wasn't instant but it <i>was</i> excruciatingly painful."</p><p>"They think those were, what, test runs?" Derek asks. His eyes go wide and he guesses, "Idaho and the coven -- this is when they ran into the Chemist? You think this has something to do with the Chemist." </p><p>Stiles nods, gaze moving from Peter to Derek. The glow around Stiles is present, now, faint enough to write off as a trick of the light but constant, almost humming in the edges of Peter's vision, more visible when Peter looks at Stiles out of the corners of his eyes. Something about this conversation has upset Stiles to the point where his magic's out, ready to defend him -- or his pack, Peter thinks, glancing at Malia. </p><p>Stiles taps his nails against the cutting board, says, "Theoretically speaking, if the Chemist was coming here anyway, for whatever reason, why not find a way to see if the local high school has any shifters? SAT test dates in the fall are generally the second Saturday in October and the first Saturdays in November and December. Beacon Hills High doesn't do anything else with fingerprinting that I know of, and it would be easy enough to break into the school and switch out the ink pads; I could probably do it blindfolded and given a five-minute deadline."</p><p>Malia bounces, asks, "Does this mean I don't have to do the test?" She looks and sounds honestly excited at the thought. "Kira might be disappointed but I don't see the point. It's not like I'm gonna go to a big school that would need them." </p><p>"We'll come back to that later," Peter says to Malia. As he's turning his gaze back to Stiles, he sees Malia glare at him, more pout than anger, but it's genuine and what she said, Peter should ask about that -- and he will. Later. "The coven or the <i>bruja</i>, they're sure it was the ink?" Peter asks Stiles. </p><p>"No other commonality," Stiles says. "They checked. Different weather patterns, different food, different school environments. Mari's student was a lorekeeper-in-training from a kiss over in New Orleans, the three shifters in Idaho were wolves from two different packs, all with different lineages. There were some anomalies in the blood tests from the human kids in Nebraska but nothing that struck the CDC as strange enough to freak out. Weird responses in proteins but nothing too out of the ordinary." Derek makes a face and Stiles shrugs, says, "There's a big IRS presence in Omaha, apparently, and more military than you'd expect. Plus, Berkshire-Hathaway headquarters. You have that much money, you get to call the shots."</p><p>Derek shakes his head -- not in disagreement, Peter thinks, but as if he can't believe what Stiles is saying. Honestly, neither can Peter. "And you just -- know this. Not only do your contacts actually have this information, you remember it. Just like that." Derek looks skeptical.</p><p>Stiles picks up the knife; Derek looks hurt, like he wasn't expecting violence but accepts it heading his way, but Stiles merely scrapes the broccoli off the cutting board and into a bowl before he pours brussel sprouts onto the cutting board. "I mean, these are recent conversations I've had with Mari and the coven," he says, as he starts slicing the sprouts in half. "But I also have a great memory for things that I care about and a hell of a lot of magic to augment that when I feel the need to. Protecting this pack," he says, gaze flicking to Derek just for a moment, "is something that makes me feel the need." </p><p>Derek tilts his head to show his throat but he's relaxed from whatever he thought Stiles was going to do with the knife. </p><p>"Either way," Peter says, "we have time to follow up. So let's just focus on dinner for now. Derek, Malia: you're more welcome to leave us to it if you'd like, but you'll be taking responsibility for doing dishes." </p><p>"I'm good with dishes," Malia says. "That's easier." She leans just a little, enough to brush her side along Derek's, then leaves for the living room. A moment later, Peter hears the television click on, volume low as Malia starts flicking through channels, and then a sigh as Malia sits down and stretches out.</p><p>Derek looks into the living room, then back at Peter, and gives Peter a sheepish smile. "Dishes. Unless you need help?" </p><p>Peter looks down at the cutting board, where Stiles is just finishing up with the sprouts, already reaching out for the olive oil with one hand while the other's still in the process of setting down the knife. "I think we're okay," Peter says. "Go on, relax for a while." </p><p>Derek nods, swipes a few chunks of bacon on his way out of the kitchen. </p><p>Stiles looks over to Peter, gives him a smile. "You and me," he says. "How fast d'you think we can get this all cooking?" </p><p>"Vegetables will take the longest," Peter says, "so get working on those." </p><p>Stiles rolls his eyes, mimics Peter, "'<i>Get working on those</i>," makes a long, dismissive noise that ends in a squeak when Peter pokes Stiles -- hard -- on one ass-cheek. "All right, all right, easy on the goods, there, alpha." </p><p>Peter snorts, says, "Oh, <i>hardly</i>," and rolls his eyes when Stiles mutters something about showing Peter something hard. </p><p>--</p><p>It's almost too easy to cook side-by-side with Stiles. They move around each other like they're dancing, trading spoons and knives, handing over dishes and dishtowels, close to one another and hardly speaking. Peter sinks into the feeling, having his mate right next to him, getting ready to feed their family, the upper hierarchy of their pack. At one point, reaching past Stiles to adjust the temperature of one of the stove burners, he drops a kiss to Stiles' cheek. It makes Stiles smile, not necessarily at Peter, just a little thing that crosses his lips like a momentary flash of happiness, and the glow around Stiles seems to glimmer in little sparks of light here and there. Their bond hums with contentment, with happiness, and Peter can't stifle his own smile, feeling it. He glances over to check on Malia and Derek and stops, stares, because Derek's tossing the bacon chunks across the room and Malia's catching each and every one in her mouth. </p><p>"Heathens," Peter grumbles. Stiles turns to see what Peter's talking about and starts to laugh. Peter elbows him, tells him to check the vegetables, and Stiles makes a face, mocking Peter, but does. </p><p>--</p><p>The smell of creamy garlic-mushroom sauce and seared chicken fills the air soon enough and it's not long before the four of them are sitting around the kitchen island eating dinner. Malia judges the dish to be decent -- high praise, coming from her, Peter's learned -- and Stiles digs in with single-minded intensity. Derek prods skeptically at his brussel sprouts but tries one and ends up shovelling the rest of the sprouts on his plate into his mouth without hesitation. </p><p>Peter soaks up the scents of satisfaction and the way that their bonds are all shivering with easy delight. His mood isn't even broken when Malia sets down the chicken bones she'd been nibbling at to get the last remnants of meat and asks, "How did your talk with Danny go?" She looks around the counter, says, "Well, that is why Stiles was at the loft, right? So you could talk to Danny?" </p><p>"I <i>went</i>," Stiles mutters, "because Derek had his hands all up inside Roscoe and he needed <i>supervision</i>." He points his fork at Derek, then, and says, "You better treat him like a delicate lady when you start taking him apart. I won't be there to watch you," and his eyes narrow, "but I don't think I need to be, do I, Derek." </p><p>Derek rolls his eyes and says, flatly, "No, Stiles. I'll treat him like a delicate lady. Though judging by how much duct tape you had in that engine, he might like a bit of --" </p><p>Stiles cuts Derek off, says, "Don't. Even." </p><p>Derek huffs but he smells of laughter to match the gleam in his eyes and the tension around the corners of his mouth, trying to maintain a straight face. Peter exchanges glances with Malia, both of them bleeding amusement at the antics of their packmates, and says, "It went well. And it was needed. I think he and I are on the same page about a number of things, now, and it gave him support he was in dire need of." Stiles makes an inquisitive noise around his mouthful of broccoli and Peter sighs, says, "Apparently the confrontation with his family didn't go well last night. Danny got so angry that he knocked out his first episode of magic -- and then himself when he went unconscious at the sudden power flux." </p><p>Stiles blinks, finishes chewing and swallowing his mouthful of food as he stares at Peter. Once his mouth is empty, he asks, "He activated? Fully? What did he do?" </p><p>Peter frowns; there's a sensation of worry flickering in his bond to Stiles, and Stiles' scent echoes it, a sudden zing of ozone sputtering through the normal layers and leaving singe-marks on the inside of Peter's nose. "Grew every succulent in the house three feet tall," he replies. "Why?" </p><p>"I'm -- hm." Stiles goes silent, his gaze goes distant, and Peter feels as if some strings of heat -- nothing tangible or visible, but something his wolf feels, deep inside, yanking on the claim Stiles first laid on Peter -- travel outwards and upwards in every direction, like some dome that Stiles is sending out with him at the middle. Peter's back teeth ache, his skull vibrates, and Stiles stands up abruptly, stool skidding backwards on the floor like someone yanked it out from under him. </p><p>"Stiles?" Derek asks, as Malia stands up, as Peter's reaching out. "What is it? What's wrong?" </p><p>It's clear something <i>is</i> wrong; Stiles' expression has gone windstorm-violent, eyes brilliantly Spark-white and nearly painful to look at in their intensity. He <i>reeks</i> of murder, of rusted metal and dead things, an air of sweet rot emanating from his body along with Spark-light, little burning ashes sputtering in the space above his hair, falling down on his shoulders like snow. </p><p>"Someone," he says, clear, the words ringing with the force of heavy gales and chiming like bells tolling out funerals, "has been fucking with my wards." </p><p>Derek asks how that's even possible but Peter's putting the pieces together now: Stiles' wards were never as strong as either of them would have liked; Amanda saw through whatever glamour Stiles had on the bite mark; Stiles didn't feel Danny's magical explosion. </p><p>"Alan," Peter says. Stiles' gaze, a distant, gathering maelstrom, moves ever-so-slowly to meet Peter's eyes. "It has to be." Stiles' head cocks to one side as if he's listening to something, and Peter feels, again, the movement of those strings of heat, anchored tight and pulled taut, now, as Stiles plucks them in a pattern Peter can't make sense of. </p><p>"Not <i>just</i> Deaton," Stiles says. "There are three druids in town and they all believe, above everything else, in the balance. They've been working ritual magic together." Peter's lips part in shock. Three druids -- Deaton's one of them, of course, and his sister's still in the area, Peter thinks, so Marin Morrell's a part of this as well, but -- he doesn't know who the third is. He shakes his head, not in disagreement but in confusion, and Stiles bares his teeth. "Emissary Ito," he says, slowly, "has been a very, very bad emissary." </p><p>Peter takes that in, thinks that of <i>course</i> Kristian's a druid, of <i>course</i> he'd be filled with hatred at the mere sight of Stiles if he's a druid, Peter had been so stupid not to make that connection, and asks, "What do we do?" </p><p>Malia scoffs, says, "What do you mean, what do we do? We kill them." </p><p>Derek opens his mouth as if to argue but he closes it a moment later, gives Stiles a thoughtful look before turning his gaze to Peter. "Deaton's already on your list," he says. "If we take him out now, will that make us safe enough for the moment?"</p><p>Stiles closes his eyes; the Spark light glows through his eyelids and then starts to dim, slowly, like Stiles is forcing himself to push it back. It's still there when Stiles opens his eyes again but it's not as bright and his scent has evened out a little as well -- though he still smells, overwhelmingly, of lightning storms and ruinous wind. He takes a few deep breaths, centres himself, and then reaches out for Peter. Peter takes Stiles' offered hand, pulls Stiles close, noses at Stiles' hair and sends reassurance and safety and shared fury down their bond. Stiles leans into him, grips Peter's hand tight. </p><p>"I need to fix the wards," he says. "That's the priority -- <i>my</i> priority, anyway. We can't kill Kristian without Satomi's approval; she'll need to break her bond with him first so she doesn't get hit with the backlash." </p><p>"Peter and I are meeting with her in the morning," Derek says. "Is that soon enough?" </p><p>Peter growls, just a little rumbling noise that he can't hold back, at the thought of needing to get <i>permission</i> before killing a threat to his mate, but he knows the necessity of it. Satomi is a soon-to-be-ally and, more than that, a friend; he'd spare her the pain of a sudden break in one of her bonds. And anyway, he only needs to kill one of them to disrupt whatever ritual they'd been performing. Without three of them to uphold the spell, it'll crumble on its own -- though Stiles will most likely still want to fix the wards himself. </p><p>"It's soon enough for him," Peter says. "But we can deal with the other two tonight." </p><p>Malia lifts her chin, her blue eyes glinting in the light of Stiles' spark, and she says, "I claim one of them."</p><p>"Is it safe to split up?" Derek asks. </p><p>"Safe enough for this," Stiles says. "I can tell you where they are, what security measures they have, give you some help to counteract them." He looks at Peter, raises an eyebrow. "Up to you, alpha." </p><p>Peter scents the resolve coming from Derek, the bloodlust gathering in the undercurrents of Malia's scent, the vicious, unrelenting thunder echoing down his bond to Stiles. The wolf inside of him howls. </p><p>"Tonight," he says, eyes flaring red, "we hunt."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Chapter 26</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peter texts Danny and Lydia, asks them to come over if they can. Lydia calls a couple minutes later, says, "<i>I'll pick Danny up on my way. What's going on</i>?" </p>
<p>"I'll tell you the details when you get here," Peter says, phone pressed between his ear and shoulder as he puts away the remnants of their dinner and makes room for Stiles' laptop on the counter, "but we're moving against a threat to the pack. You and Danny should be involved." </p>
<p>There's a pause on the other end of the phone, the noise of a door slamming, and Lydia says, "<i>Give us twenty minutes</i>," before hanging up. </p>
<p>Peter turns to Stiles, then, who has his laptop out and Google Maps loaded. Derek and Malia are already looking over Stiles' shoulder; Peter joins them, makes sure he's in some sort of physical contact with all of them. He doesn't think Malia needs the comfort of the pack bonds and touch -- she's ready to go and kill whoever they point her at -- but there's a deep sort of resignation in Peter's bond to Derek and Stiles is still tense, still obviously attempting to keep the Spark back from exploding and taking out the threats itself. Peter, himself, finds it reassuring to know, without a doubt, that his family is here, that they're all together, that they're of one mind. </p>
<p>Stiles lifts up his toes, lays them on top of Peter's foot, nothing too overt but enough of a reciprocation for Peter's wolf to settle, and then starts pointing at his laptop screen. "Morrell lives here," he says, gesturing at a pin dropped at one end of a subdivision on the south side of town. </p>
<p>"Deaton, here," Peter says, tapping the screen over a street that runs along the north edge of the preserve. Stiles drops a pin over Deaton's house, one lone house set back into the woods just a little. "Though he might still be at the vet's." </p>
<p>"No," Stiles says. "He's at home. They haven't screwed with the territory wards enough to block out their specific magical signatures; I don't know if they can't or if they just don't care, but I can still feel them enough to be certain where they are. Kristian's outside of the territory so I can't pinpoint his location exactly but Deaton and Morrell are both at their homes."</p>
<p>The highest form of idiocy, to challenge a Spark on the Spark's territory and not hightail it as far away as possible before the Spark finds out. Peter never had much respect for Alan's magical prowess but any lingering traces are completely wiped away now. </p>
<p>Derek tilts his head, asks, "Could they have redirected the wards somehow?" </p>
<p>Stiles shakes his head, though he smells impressed with the question and the foresight it shows. Derek must notice; he straightens up, leans in a little closer to Stiles, scent blooming with the kind of confidence that Peter's always wanted to feel from his nephew. "Now that I know there's a problem, I've shored them up," Stiles says. "I'll need to go to the actual wardline to completely unfuck them -- there's most likely a physical component to whatever ritual they performed -- but they're good enough for now to know where Deaton and Morrell are." He lets out a deep breath, says, "There are intention wards on their properties. Neither of them are very good at wards themselves; Deaton's specialty lies in green magic and Morrell's nothing more than a glorified lorekeeper with a deft touch for mountain ash and some basic abilities with illusions. I can send enough of the Spark with you that you'll be able to bypass the wards and any kind of countermeasures they might have." </p>
<p>"You'll still be okay if you do that," Malia says, not really asking the question, more demanding Stiles' agreement than anything. "You'll still have enough to fix the wards?" </p>
<p>"And protect all of you," Stiles says, reassuring Malia with his words and with a touch to her waist. "I might need to sleep for a while once it's all done but that's it." </p>
<p>Peter raises an eyebrow, asks, "It'll be that draining?" </p>
<p>Stiles tilts his head back and forth, considers the question and then shrugs one shoulder. "The Spark has a -- it doesn't really like to go -- to be split up," he says, hesitating over some of the words. "I could -- it'd be easier if I could bind it to you rather than just send it along, but --" </p>
<p>"Do it," Malia says, a moment before Peter can, though both Peter and Derek quickly echo her sentiment. </p>
<p>"It would take blood," Stiles says, after a deep breath. "A lot of people aren't fond of blood magic." </p>
<p>Malia gives Stiles a look that says, in volumes, how stupid she finds that. "If it works and it makes it easier on you, then do it. We're not people. We're pack." </p>
<p>Stiles smiles at her, a helpless thing full of adoration and fierce, protective love. Peter would wonder at how Malia, of all people, has earned such emotions from Stiles when Stiles so adamantly professes to be something close to a sociopath, but Malia is all instinct and primal need, just like the Spark. He would wonder -- he just doesn't have to. </p>
<p>Derek presses his fingertips to Stiles' back, runs them along Peter's arm, as he heads for the front door. It hasn't been twenty minutes, closer to ten or fifteen, but Derek opens the door and Peter leans around the corner far enough to see Lydia and Danny getting out of Lydia's Prius. Danny's wearing what Peter assumes are his normal clothes, jeans and a t-shirt, an unzipped hoodie over that in deference to the coolness of the approaching evening, but Lydia's dressed for war: skinny black jeans, leather jacket, boots that look to be steel-toed. </p>
<p>Stiles' scent changes when the two come inside and he lays eyes on Lydia, an arctic breeze tangling with the starlight remnants of the Spark pulsing around him in rhythm to his heart. Lydia meets Stiles' eyes, tilts her chin up in some kind of defiance that Peter doesn't understand but bristles at. Stiles reaches over, wraps his fingers around Peter's wrist, and asks Lydia, "How fast did you drive?" </p>
<p>Lydia relaxes at the question, shrugs. "Fast," she says. "And I may have run a couple stop signs and red lights. No time for that when Peter's talking about a threat to the pack. What's going on?" </p>
<p>"Three druids have been fucking with my wards." Stiles' eyes brighten, the dim glow around him cascading through with flame for a brief moment before Stiles wrestles the Spark back under control with sheer force of will. "I don't like it when people fuck with something of mine." </p>
<p>Danny looks captivated by Stiles -- either his magic or his control of it, Peter's not sure -- but Lydia narrows her eyes and looks from Stiles to Peter. "Deaton," she guesses. "And Morrell? Who's the third?" </p>
<p>"Alpha Ito's emissary," Peter says. "We'll have to go through proper channels to take care of him, but the other two are in <i>our</i> territory." </p>
<p>Lydia and Danny exchange glances and it's Danny, to Peter's surprise, who steps forward and simply says, "Tell us what you need us to do." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Derek, Lydia, and Danny sit down in the living room as Malia darts upstairs to change into something more appropriate for what they're going to do. Peter paces behind the couch, trying to figure out the best dynamics for a hunt as he keeps an ear on what Derek's saying, bringing Lydia and Danny up to speed, and one eye on Stiles as Stiles rummages through one of the kitchen cabinets. </p>
<p>They have to split up; they need to attack both of the druids at the same time or one might get a message to the other, and Peter knows better than to think that Stiles will put off the wards any longer than necessary now that he knows there's a problem. Any pairing would work, but Peter wants Alan and Malia's already claimed a kill, so she'll get Morrell. Stiles has to be the one who deals with the wards, which leaves Derek, Lydia, and Danny. </p>
<p>"We're sure we shouldn't wait for dark?" Danny asks, as Stiles comes back into the living room, bowl in one hand and laptop in the other. Peter looks into the bowl, sees a few different herbs and spices in the bottom; he smells salt and rosemary, cinnamon and black pepper, even some fennel seeds and dill. "It's stereotypical, I know, to do things like this when it's dark but it makes sense as well. Easier to evade cameras, fewer people out means fewer potential witnesses, we might be able to catch them completely off-guard while they're asleep." </p>
<p>Stiles glances at Peter, says, "He's got a point, you know. We've still got an hour until sunset." He nudges Derek's shoulder, then, and passes over the laptop, the map of Beacon Hills still pulled up. Derek takes it, sets it on the coffee table. </p>
<p>Peter bares his teeth. He'd rather not wait, not when he knows now that Alan is actively moving against Stiles, not when he has proof of a threat against his pack. Still, Danny's point is good enough that it can't just be ignored. "How long will the protection take?" he asks Stiles. He scents curiosity wafting out from Danny and Lydia, though Lydia's scent is bound up in something cold and smelling of salt, harsh and abrasive but capable of cleansing. It reminds Peter, vaguely, of Béa. </p>
<p>"Longer to settle and for you to get adjusted than it'll take for me to do it," Stiles says, as Malia thunders back down the steps, wearing clothes very similar to Lydia's: skinny jeans, boots. Her shirt, though, is short-sleeved and smells of Stiles, the bottom hem gathered up and tied in a knot at her waist. "Literally seconds." </p>
<p>"We still have to plan, though," Derek points out, "and leave. It could be an hour before we're actually knocking doors down and it'll be closer to dark, then." </p>
<p>Peter takes a deep breath in, holds it, lets it out slow. "I'd rather not wait," he says. "And Alan doesn't have neighbours. We'd really only have to worry about Morrell but her house," and he nods at the laptop, "is at the end of a cul-de-sac and her property backs up to another road. We can go over the fence and come at her that way." </p>
<p>Lydia and Danny look at the laptop; Derek points out where Deaton and Morrell both live. Danny purses his lips for a moment, says, "If I remember, the closest CCTV to that end of the preserve is a gas station about a mile further north of his house. There's a camera at the corner of the intersection turning onto that road but --"</p>
<p>"It's a red light camera," Stiles says, as Danny trails off, the two of them meeting eyes. "As long as no one runs the light, it should be fine. Morrell's not in the most pricey subdivision but I'd be willing to bet that some of her neighbours have cameras or motion detectors, light sensors, that sort of thing. Going in from the back would be best to avoid those -- and you were planning on doing that anyway," Stiles says, looking at Peter. </p>
<p>"What will we be doing with the bodies?" Malia asks. Lydia blinks at her and Danny gapes, as if shocked by the matter-of-fact question. Malia looks at both of them, rolls her eyes, says, "They're brother and sister. If the police find them both dead on the same night, they'll get ideas."</p>
<p>Peter gives Malia a smile, places his hand on the back of her neck and squeezes a little, rumbling with pride at her question. She flushes, a little, but moves in close to Peter, ends up leaning against him and rubbing her cheek on his arm a couple times. Peter turns to Stiles, asks, "Can you do what you did to --," and stops, abruptly, rather than say Kate Argent's name in front of Derek. "Or would that be too much on top of everything else?" </p>
<p>"It's not my preference," he says, slowly, "but I will if you want me to. That was mostly just a translocation; I didn't have to -- I mean, they didn't have to go far. Doing the same to Deaton won't be an issue since he's close to the preserve anyway, but Morrell --"</p>
<p>"She was in Eichen House," Malia says, cutting Stiles off. Malia holds Stiles' gaze, then looks at Peter. "I didn't like her. She was cruel; she's not the type to play with her food but she would if she thought it would hurt more. She's the one I want. If I make a mess, will it matter? If not, I can find a way to get her to the preserve and bury her there." </p>
<p>Lydia leans forward, looks a little pale at the talk but doesn't disagree or argue, just says, "I don't know what we can do," gesturing at herself and Danny. "You might be able to jump fences and get the drop on them, have the strength to -- to carry corpses or whatever. But we're just human. Mostly human. What can we do and will that make a difference to your plan?" </p>
<p>"You'll come with me," Peter tells her, having settled on the pairings. "I'm sure there's a great deal we can plunder from Alan's inventory and I know that you'd like to go through his books. It won't require much walking, either; there's a deer trail not too far from his house that we can park at; it's far enough off the road that no one passing by will see us and I don't think many people even know it's there. I was thinking about sending Danny with Malia, to make sure there's at least one person capable of breaking mountain ash in each team, but I think you," he says to Danny, "would be better served going with Stiles." He turns his eyes to Derek, says, "That would leave you and Malia to deal with Morrell, Danny and Stiles with the wards." </p>
<p>Derek nods, slowly. "A human would be ideal; Morrell's more than proficient when it comes to mountain ash." He pauses, looks at Stiles, then, and adds, "But you said you could bind a piece of the Spark to us so that mountain ash isn't an issue. If you're willing to do that, then Mal and I shouldn't have any problem getting in and then getting her body out again." </p>
<p>Malia snorts, mutters, "<i>Shouldn't</i>, he says. Are you a wolf or not, cousin?" </p>
<p>Derek doesn't move but he <i>does</i> snarl, a little thing just barely audible. Malia huffs, a noise that's pure coyote, but it signals both her amusement and her concession to Derek, a small apology for the joke. Danny, watching the interchange, tilts his head, eyes flicking back and forth between Derek and Malia as if they've done something fascinating. </p>
<p>Lydia waits until they're done before asking, "Bind a piece of the Spark? This is the protection you were talking about?" Her eyes gleam with impatient curiosity; Peter doesn't know how much of the Spark Lydia's seen, how much Stiles has told her, but something like this should be more than enough to convince her to take Stiles and his magic as seriously as she takes death.</p>
<p>"I can set a -- ward circle, I guess, around each of you," he tells her, gaze flickering to Danny before going back to settle on Lydia. "Protection, mostly; able to burn up mountain ash, mistletoe, and wolfsbane before it can get to you, along with any offensive magic they might have." He pauses, adds, "I mean -- uh. It's blood magic. That has a -- well, let's just say it has a reputation in our world and I won't be offended if you'd rather not."</p>
<p>"I trust you," Lydia says, voice firm and heartbeat steady. "Any protection you're willing to offer is gladly accepted." </p>
<p>Peter looks around the room at his pack, feels their focus and willingness hum through the bonds, binding them all close, tight. He's so proud of them all, not just at the ease with which they're all contemplating murder, but at the way they trust him, trust each other, aren't hesitating to do what needs to be done. </p>
<p>"It'll take about as much time for Lydia and I to get to Alan's as it will for Derek and Malia to get to Morrell's," Peter says. He asks Stiles, "How long will it take you and Danny to get to the wards?" </p>
<p>"Longer," Stiles says, "but that's not a problem. It might even be better -- getting rid of the druids will destabilise whatever spell they were using. Better for us to be a little further away when that happens. Also means," he tells Danny, grinning, "that we won't need to be waiting around for everyone else to finish up their parts." </p>
<p>Peter narrows his eyes at Stiles, who gives him an innocent smile. Peter's not fooled for one minute by that expression and Stiles knows it, ends up laughing, leaning in and rubbing his nose against Peter's. "Time for the protection spell, then," Peter tells Stiles. "What do you need?" </p>
<p>Stiles straightens up, holds the bowl in his right hand and offers his left hand to Peter. "Just a claw, alpha. And make it deep." </p>
<p>Without hesitation, Peter takes Stiles' hand, flicks out his claws, and draws a deep line across Stiles' palm. Stiles cups his hand, tilts it over the bowl, and Peter licks his claw clean as he watches Stiles' blood drip onto the mix of herbs in the bottom of the bowl. Stiles stops bleeding quickly, moves the bowl back to his left hand and uses his right thumb to mix the ingredients in the bowl. He then looks at Peter, raises an eyebrow in question, and Peter lets his hands fall back to his sides as he nods. </p>
<p>Stiles dips his thumb into the sludge, murmurs something under his breath as he lifts his hand and gently presses his thumb to the centre of Peter's forehead. For a moment, nothing happens, and then, suddenly, a wave of heat runs through Peter's body, head to toe. Just when the heat hits the bottom of his feet and disappears, a flash of Spark-light fills Peter's vision and blinds him for a moment. </p>
<p>When his sight clears, he whistles through his teeth. The entire world is overlain with a glow, like Peter's suddenly wearing yellow- or orange-tinted glasses, and everyone in his vision gleams bright, their -- auras, for lack of a better term, outlined in various colours: blue for Derek and Malia, grey for Lydia, green for Danny. Peter lifts his hands, stares at them in wonder as he turns them back and forth, watching as the red luminescence around him moves with his fingers. </p>
<p>Peter looks at Stiles, then, and barely holds back a gasp. He has to stare at the pure <i>white</i> of the Spark swirling around his mate, creeping out from his back in large wings made of fire, circling his head like some kind of coronet, strands of gossamer-thin radiance flickering in and out of existence as they coil outwards from him and swim lazily through the room, brilliant fire of the lightest ice-blue wound around every part of him in great interlocking rings like some sort of armour or shield almost too thick to see through.  </p>
<p>"It's going to be stronger for you than anyone else," Stiles tells him. "I tried to dial it down as much as possible but there's only so much I can do since we share a triple bond on top of the claim. How is it?" </p>
<p>Peter shakes his head, still trying to summon the words for speech. He stares at Stiles, can't do anything but, and he realises, suddenly, what it is to stand in the presence of pure magic, the kind of magic at the centre of universe, the kind of magic that birthed all of creation and will be the only thing left standing when existence finally, inevitably collapses in on itself and dies. Seeing Stiles like this, attaching the brightness of each person's aura to their strength and then extrapolating that outwards, to realise that even the power of a young Morrigan like Lydia <i>pales</i> in comparison to Stiles, it -- it leaves him lost for words. </p>
<p>Stiles frowns at Peter's silence and tugs him around the couch, presses at his shoulder until Peter sits down, hard, eyes still fixed on Stiles. Stiles sighs, moves to stand in front of Derek. "Hopefully he'll snap out of it by the time we're done," Stiles says. "Are you ready?" </p>
<p>"The power of the protection, that's tied to the claim?" Derek asks. </p>
<p>"Sort of," Stiles says. "You're mine through Peter, which should blunt the effect. You won't feel it as much as Peter but it'll be more than the others." </p>
<p>Peter watches through the brightness as Derek nods and tells Stiles to do it, closing his eyes and sitting up straight. A moment later, Stiles presses his bloodied thumb to Derek's forehead and steps back, gesturing for Malia to come over to that side of the couch and sit down next to Derek. Derek opens his eyes and Peter sees the instant Derek sets eyes on Stiles, lips parting in shock or awe, maybe both, as he leans back into the couch, staring at Stiles. </p>
<p>Malia, for her part, merely blinks a time or two before settling into the magic as if she's not at all surprised by what she sees. Maybe she isn't, maybe Stiles was right and no one will be as affected as Peter and, to a lesser extent, Derek, but Peter watches as Lydia and Danny, in turn, also stare, wide-eyed, at Stiles as he gives them their own mark -- and then Peter remembers that Malia chose Stiles as her alpha far before she knew what he was, chose him and followed him and gave him everything she is. She's already come to terms with his power and accepts it more easily than the rest of them, as something that Stiles is <i>due</i> and that everyone else is stupid for ignoring. Of course she wouldn't be knocked sideways by the Spark and seeing it in the same way everyone else has been. </p>
<p>"Right," Stiles says, as he heads for the kitchen. "Let that -- settle, I guess, while I clean this off, then we can coordinate watches or phones or whatever and get out of here." </p>
<p>Malia gets up and trails after him; Peter rubs his palms over his eyes and feels Derek kind of slump against him. Peter understands exactly why Derek smells the way he does, why the scents of confused awe are emanating from Danny and Lydia. </p>
<p>"Did you know?" Derek asks him. "Did you -- I --." </p>
<p>Peter's seen Stiles kill demons, he's been in the maelstrom of the Spark let as free as Stiles can allow it on this plane, has tasted the pure <i>power</i> coursing through Stiles' blood. Even through all of that, seeing Stiles like this, how <i>bright</i> he burns and how even the Spark, bound as much as it can be <i>still</i> flows out and around is -- stunning. He thinks back to what Stiles said, on the drive home from Medina's, and laughs. "The difference between knowing and understanding," he tells Derek. Derek makes a noise of inquiry and Peter sighs. "I knew. But my understanding was -- limited." </p>
<p>"And yet," Stiles says, above Peter, "you still had more understanding than most." Peter tilts his head back, forgetting what he's going to see, and the blinding radiance of Stiles has him narrowing his eyes. Stiles, drying his hands off, is giving Peter a hesitant smile; Peter reaches up and Stiles tangles his fingers in with Peter's, eyes going soft. </p>
<p>"The visibility directly correlates to our power," Lydia says. "That's why Peter's brighter than Derek or Malia; alpha's hold more of the pack's power than the betas. I'm bright because I'm fae. Danny's --" </p>
<p>Danny picks up where Lydia stops short, searching for a polite way to say, "The dimmest in the room, but still noticeable. I assume that's because I don't really have that much power?" </p>
<p>Stiles gives Danny an apologetic look. "If it's any consolation, I don't think your dad or grandpa would show up at all. The fact that you have a visible colour puts you in the pecking order where anyone else is concerned. And," he's quick to add, "strength has never equated to skill, not when it comes to magic. Someone could glow as bright a green as anything else but if they don't know what to do with it, it's mostly useless. If Peter and I have anything to say about it, you'll learn more skill than any other elemental alive. Combined with your brain, you'll be a force just as feared as anyone else in this pack." </p>
<p>A small grin starts to slide across Danny's mouth and he nods, pleased. "I'll take it," he says, and then tells Lydia, "Sorry, I derailed you. What point were <i>you</i> trying to make?" </p>
<p>"You're so bright that you're giving me a headache," Lydia says to Stiles, blunt as she ever is. "How much power do <i>you</i> have?" </p>
<p>Stiles lets out a deep breath. Peter, still holding Stiles' hand, squeezes a little and Malia, standing next to Stiles, bumps her shoulder against Stiles in comfort. Peter hears movement, assumes that Malia's taking Stiles' other hand, and he looks up again, sees the way that some of the threads of glimmering light swimming outwards from Stiles weave in and through Malia's form, like some kind of manifestation of their pack bond. </p>
<p>"No one else in the world shines as bright as I do," Stiles replies. "You've read the books, Lydia; you know the hierarchies." </p>
<p>"Fae have more magic than any kind of human," Lydia says, softly, glancing down at her own hands, the way that her pale grey light emanates outwards, casting shadows of its own as she turns her hands backwards and forwards. Peter's carrying more than a dozen alpha sparks inside of him and even he doesn't cast shadows; it's hard to argue against what Lydia's said when the proof of it is easy for them all to see. "I'm young, though," she goes on, looking back at Stiles. "I could grow into my power." </p>
<p>Stiles nods, just once, says, "Once you cement your ties with the Shadowlands, the colour will deepen. It'll never grow bigger." </p>
<p>Lydia falls silent, searches Stiles over, takes him in, reaches out to touch one of the Spark-threads when it passes her. Her fingers fall right through the light, scattering it like a prism might, sending raindrops of sun floating off in every direction. They all watch as each of those droplets slows, elongates, starts spinning in different ways, at different speeds, until they're just a part of the mass of light shining through the room. </p>
<p>"People don't even see this," Lydia murmurs, "but they still know. That's why you're called Sparks, isn't it. Every time someone -- I thought it was referring to the spark of magic, some spark of imagination or creation or -- but it's this. It's the light."</p>
<p>"And the Spark's still bound," Peter says, more to Lydia than anyone else. "Over -- what would you say, Stiles -- half of it? Two-thirds of it?" </p>
<p>Stiles squeezes Peter's hand in rebuke but does say, reluctantly, "More like seventy percent. Bound by law and choice, both. But if you're recovered enough to do some underhanded half-bragging, half-warning about that, then you're recovered enough to send us off. So," and he slides his hands out of Peter's hold and, judging by the way Malia lets loose a short, sharp growl of unhappiness, Malia's as well, "we should coordinate and go. The sooner my wards are back to normal, the better. Is everyone ready?"</p>
<p>There's some grumbling, but Derek stands up, offers Peter a hand, and Stiles and Malia move around the couch to stand closer to everyone else. Peter looks around at his pack, sends pride and reassurance to each of them through the pack bonds. </p>
<p>He turns to Stiles first, says, "Explain the wards to Danny. Show him what you can. I want him to learn." </p>
<p>Stiles laughs, says, "I had every intention of doing so, Peter -- didn't you hear my little speech earlier? Just -- ignore anything you see coming from the woods. There might be flares; don't worry, they won't be real, not really. You'll only see them because of the ward." </p>
<p>Peter rolls his eyes, leans in and gives Stiles a kiss. "Just be careful," he tells Stiles, knowing it's a hopeless cause but still needing to say the words. </p>
<p>"Yes, alpha," Stiles says, and Danny echoes him when Peter tells him to be careful as well. </p>
<p>The two of them leave, Stiles' Spark lingering for long moments after Stiles himself has gone. Peter looks at Lydia, says, "Whatever you thought of Stiles before, it has to change. It <i>has</i> to, Lydia. Stiles will take a lot of disrespect from people in our pack because he loves us and because he thinks he doesn't deserve better, but no one outside of these doors worth our time will stand for it and they'll come to his defense. They'll come <i>viciously</i>. It won't matter that you're pack." </p>
<p>For a moment, just one moment, Lydia tilts her chin up and her eyes spark defiance. Peter expects her to argue, expects to hear her say that no one will hurt her, that she has the power of a fae at her disposal and she'll learn quickly how to wield it. She calms, though, and simply tells him, "I'll learn. That's what I'm good at." </p>
<p>Profound, violent relief floods through Peter. He'd dreaded the idea of some sort of showdown between Lydia and Stiles, if only because Stiles would beat himself up over it afterwards, but he'd assumed that it would take something like what Peter saw after his challenge in the loft for Lydia to realise that she needs to face up to what Stiles is and treat him with the respect he's due. If this was enough to get her to see the truth of how insignificant they all are, he'll take it, and he'll take it with gratitude. </p>
<p>"We'll get going," Derek says, moving to stand in front of Peter, Malia at his side. "We'll text when we're in position and we won't move until you tell us." He pauses, says, "Take care of Lydia," like it's drawn something out of him to even have to ask. Lydia perks up, though, and her scent turns soft, affectionate. </p>
<p>Peter scents Derek and Malia both, instructs them to be careful but to be strong, and Derek's still flushing a little as they leave. </p>
<p>With his nephew and daughter gone, feeling the distance grow in his bonds to Stiles and Danny, Peter looks to Lydia and raises an eyebrow in silent question. In response, Lydia takes a hair tie off of her wrist and uses it to pull her hair into a tight bun, high up and out of the way. "You're <i>sure</i> you're ready for this," he asks. "No judging, no doubt, but -- you're willing?" </p>
<p>"He tried to kill my best friend," Lydia says, "and he used me to do it. I'm no fan of Alan Deaton." </p>
<p>Peter gives her a grin, wide and savage, baring his fangs. </p>
<p>Lydia returns it. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>The two of them get into Peter's car and he starts driving towards the preserve. Rather than let silence keep them company on the drive, he asks, "Why did you and Stiles have a silent showdown when he saw you?" </p>
<p>"The jacket was Allison's," Lydia admits. "So were the boots. Before Chris left, he let me raid Allison's wardrobe for anything I wanted. I didn't take much, but --." She stops, lets voice a little laugh that rings with mockery. "I took her hunting clothes. Figured I might need them eventually. He gave me some weapons as well: one of her crossbows, a gun, plenty of wolfsbane bullets and silver arrows. I have them all locked in a trunk in my attic."</p>
<p>"Stiles was planning on taking Malia to the shooting range this summer," Peter says. "Make sure she's at least comfortable enough with a gun to point it at centre mass and shoot, get used to the noise, see if she has a preference for anything. I'm sure they'd be happy to drag you along." Lydia smells of reluctance, that and distaste, so Peter just adds, "It's good to be familiar, and no one would begrudge you using her things. Might even amuse some of us who've had those same weapons pointed at us now used in our defense." </p>
<p>Lydia snorts. "The best defense is a good offense?" </p>
<p>"Better to be over-prepared and ready for anything, rather than under-prepared and left scrambling," Peter counteroffers. A moment goes by, then another, and Peter says, "Out with it, whatever you're thinking." </p>
<p>"Stiles," Lydia says. "He could've dealt with them himself. Probably without moving from the kitchen," she adds, under her breath. "Why didn't he?" </p>
<p>Peter stops at a red light, turn signal just a beat off from the flashing pedestrian sign on the crosswalk. He glances around, makes sure there's no one out on the road; not for the first time, he's glad that Beacon Hills pretends to be more of a big town than the small city it really is. Most businesses close early on Sundays and they aren't going near the 24-hour fast food places or the restaurants open late, nowhere near the community college and the stores that stay open to cater to the nocturnal student crowd. </p>
<p>"I claimed Alan," Peter says, "and Stiles' priority tonight is on the wards. He could've dealt with them, yes, but he has a pack now. He doesn't have to. Better we all work together to fix this. Besides, it gives Malia some experience in dealing with druids, gives you a chance to raid Alan's supplies, gives Danny a chance to look at the wards. It's good for all of us."</p>
<p>"I have to admit," Lydia says, as the light turns green and Peter hits the gas pedal, "I never thought of murder as a team-building event." </p>
<p>Peter laughs. "An unconventional one, but with this pack?"</p>
<p>Lydia half-hums, half-mutters, conceding the point. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>It doesn't take long before Peter's parking the car about a quarter of a mile down the rutted path of a deer trail, just off the main road running along the edge of the preserve. He texts Derek that they've parked and are getting ready to walk the rest of the way; he puts his phone on silent and gets out of the car. Lydia's already out, waiting for him on her side of the car with a tote bag over her shoulder, and Peter goes around the front, offers an arm to Lydia. She gives him a considering look then takes it, the two of them starting off towards Alan's house. Lydia's a little hesitant, picking her way through the preserve, but he wouldn't expect her to be as comfortable as any of the shifters. She's steady enough, keeping a good pace. </p>
<p>"You were shocked when Stiles did his spell on you," Lydia murmurs, after a few minutes of silence. "I could feel it through the pack bonds. Why?"</p>
<p>It's a good question. Peter, more than anyone, has gotten close to the truth of the Spark before, has felt it brush up against him in warning more times than he could count, let it scour him inside and bind him in delicate chains made of light. Even now, sometimes, Peter wonders how much of him the Spark burned away, how much it mutated, how much of Peter is really Peter, down at the core -- but every time he wonders, he eventually shrugs it off. He doesn't care, not really, and if that's part of the Spark as well, then he can only applaud Stiles for making him so dismissive, so willing to believe in Stiles' goodness and cunning. </p>
<p>"I'd never seen it like that before," Peter tells Lydia. "Not in comparison to the rest of us, but -- it's always been light, to me. Light and heat. Radiant and beautiful, yes, but threatening, too. A sign of Stiles' anger, most of the time, or impatience, something that's slipped the bounds of his control, either consciously or unconsciously. This just -- was. It just <i>was</i>. It's the truth he prefers to keep hidden."</p>
<p>"I could feel it," Lydia says, softly. She lifts a hand to her throat, says, "Here. Like -- I didn't want to scream for him, but I wanted to -- like I was choking on something, or about to choke on something. Like I couldn't breathe past it." She stops there but she's clearly thinking about something else, something more, and the indecision of whether or not to bring it up eats at her. Peter doesn't push this time, though, and his patience is rewarded when she says, "The nogitsune couldn't have made him do anything he didn't want to. Not when he's that powerful." </p>
<p>Peter huffs, points out, "The nogitsune was as close to a Spark as anything can get. A thousand years old, nine tails, skilled in manipulation and trickery. Sometimes a person -- or fox, in this case -- can get what it wants without needing power." He glances at her out of the corner of his eyes, adds, "You should know that better than most." </p>
<p>Lydia gives him a sharp glance but doesn't disagree.  </p>
<p>The nogitsune was clever and Stiles was -- lonely. Brimming with self-doubt, packless and without connection, slowly forming a tenuous bond with Peter but otherwise alone. The fox burrowed deep into the Spark's brilliance and then Stiles <i>invited</i> it in deeper, ostensibly to protect Malia but Peter has his doubts that events followed such a simple timeline. At some point, Stiles and the fox twinned; Peter doesn't know when that happened or what the impetus was, if it was even a conscious choice that one or both of them made or if they just kind of -- slid into it and didn't notice what was happening until the process was already in progress or completed. </p>
<p>Every time Peter's thought about asking, his nose aches with the memory of how Stiles' scent changes when someone asks him to remember the nogitsune. It hurts Peter to draw on memories of his old pack. It hurts Stiles just as much to talk about the nogitsune. </p>
<p>At any rate, Peter thinks that Lydia's issues with the nogitsune circle around Allison's death, Aiden's as well, and have much less to do with what kind of connections the fox made to Stiles. </p>
<p>"Besides," he says, "by the time the fox killed your ex-boyfriend and your best friend, he and Stiles had separated. The nogitsune might have been wearing a copy of Stiles' body, but Stiles had nothing to do with those deaths."</p>
<p>"I know that," Lydia says. "Logically, I know that. It's just -- hard to remember, sometimes. I'll do better. Do my best, anyway." </p>
<p>Lydia falls silent and Peter follows her lead, throwing out his senses and feeling through his bonds. The preserve's quiet, nightlife not yet up and out, the creatures who prefer daylight already bedded down for the evening. Malia's bond thrums with impatient anticipation, Derek's with a solid kind of resolve. Danny and Stiles both feel amused; Peter's not sure why but he'll take that over the <i>many</i> other possibilities. </p>
<p>He glances at Lydia. In the dark, he can see her eyes glowing a faint silver.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Chapter 27</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They get to the edges of Alan's wards a few minutes later. Peter sees them hanging there in the strange vision that Stiles' protective spell has given him, a weird, throbbing soap-bubble of pale luminescence circling Alan's property. Lydia studies it but stops out of its reach. </p>
<p>"Do you think this is how Stiles sees?" she asks abruptly. "The colours, the aura-sight, other magic." </p>
<p>Peter blinks, tilts his head as he's taking his phone out of his pocket. "I don't know," he says. "We'll ask him later if you want." </p>
<p>Lydia hums, a noise that doesn't really answer Peter one way or the other, but he leaves her to it. He sends a text to Stiles and Derek, just a quick note that they're in position and ready when the others are. Stiles texts back quickly, says that he and Danny are about ten minutes from the ward anchor but he's ready for them whenever. </p>
<p>Derek takes longer to get back to Peter. When he does, it's a quick, simple message. <i>Ready when you are.</i></p>
<p>Peter sends another text, tells them they'll go in two minutes, and puts his phone back in his pocket without waiting for a response. </p>
<p>"If it's possible," Lydia says, "I'd like to ask a couple questions before you kill him." </p>
<p>Peter bares his fangs, gives her a cold, cruel smile, and says, "Oh, I think we can manage that." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Lydia calls time and Peter strides forward first. The glow of Spark-light around him hits Alan's wards, pulls them in close and then sucks them in and fucking <i>eats</i> them. It sets the light around Peter to pulsing and when Lydia crosses the old line, the light around her grows as well. In a matter of seconds, her hair turns into feathers, her eyes go full silver, and the air coming off of her thrills with ice. </p>
<p>Peter doesn't stop, just stalks across the garden and steps over the line of mountain ash around Alan's house, kicks in the front door. He feels some type of spell or ward hit the Spark-magic around him, a brief flicker of heat washing through the space in front of Peter. He walks through it, pauses in the small entryway for just a second to track the location of Alan's heartbeat. It's coming from the kitchen, so Peter moves down a hallway, past a sitting room and a small washroom, doesn't bother trying to hide his steps on the hardwood floor. </p>
<p>The kitchen's at the end of the hallway, the sink and stove visible from the hallway Peter's stalking down, and a few moments later, he comes out of the hallway and into the kitchen itself. Alan's on the other side of a small, two-person table, holding one hand up, the other in a fist, gripping tight around something that smells like aconite and rowan. </p>
<p>Alan meets Peter's eyes with a steadiness that surprises Peter, a sort of expectant resignation clouding up Alan's scent, though that changes into shock when Lydia, behind Peter, steps into the kitchen. There's just enough of a change in Alan's face -- his lips part, his eyes go wide, there's a sudden loss of tension to his shoulders and the hand that he's holding up drops a little -- to see that he does not expect to see Lydia or the truth of what she is. </p>
<p>"Morrigan," he whispers. "I couldn't -- <i>how</i>?" </p>
<p>Lydia lifts her chin as she comes to a stop next to Peter. "Lineage, blood, and magic," she says, her tone crisp, unforgiving. "What's in your hand?" </p>
<p>Alan gives them both a smile, opens his fist to reveal the glimmering silver of mountain ash mixed in with crushed yellow petals of wolfsbane. Peter narrows his eyes, stares at the death Alan's so casually holding in his hand, and prays that Stiles' protection is strong enough to hold off yellow wolfsbane, something even hunters rarely use due to its excruciating lethality. It's a sad time, Peter thinks, when hunters, who loathe shifters, are more humane in their methods than druids. </p>
<p>"It won't affect you, of course, Miss Martin," Alan says, almost apologetically, "but it will mean a death sentence for your companion." </p>
<p>Lydia snorts. Something about that, about her clear dismissal of the threat, seems to surprise Alan. Still, it doesn't take him off guard for very long. He's quick to lift his hand to his mouth and blow in Peter's direction, the mingled ash and wolfsbane spinning through the air. Peter stands there, doesn't react, and the Spark flares to life, burning up every mote of dust and petal long before it has a chance to cause any harm. </p>
<p>Alan looks saddened by this, not at the way his attack failed, but at <i>how</i>. "He's awake, then," he murmurs. "I had wondered. I suppose I thought we had more time." </p>
<p>"More time to murder him?" Peter asks. "More time to try and undermine him, isolate him, convince him he would be better off killing himself? What, Alan, were you planning on doing to <i>my mate</i>?" </p>
<p>"Mate?" Alan echoes, his composure deserting him entirely. "In what universe would <i>anyone</i> choose to mate with you? Or did you take him?" he asks, eyes narrowing as his scent floods over with a distaste so strong it borders on hate. "Did you force him to take your bite the way you forced Scott? Are you that divorced from your honour as a Hale that you go around biting whatever teenager you so choose, and then bind them to your side?" He eyes Lydia, asks, "What did he promise you? After he bit you, after he <i>used</i> you, what did he offer that would lead you to forgive him and choose to stand at his side?" </p>
<p>Lydia rolls her eyes. "He offered me a place in his pack and his respect," she says, "but I didn't join his pack because of him. I joined because of Stiles." </p>
<p>Alan appears ready to argue that, but he stops, pauses. "His pack," he says, gaze dancing between Lydia and Peter. "<i>His</i> pack? He's not an alpha." </p>
<p>Peter waits until Alan's looking at him, then flashes his eyes. "I <i>am</i> alpha," he says. "And Stiles not only accepted my bite, he asked for it. This is my territory and Stiles is my mate and emissary." </p>
<p>"Are you here to ask me to leave, then?" Alan asks. "You know I have duties of my own to this territory and the other pack that lives here, the pack led by the true alpha." </p>
<p>Peter laughs, says, "No. Not leave." He crosses the distance between them, ignoring the spells that seem to fling themselves up out of the floor and down from the ceiling, ignores the mountain ash that comes spinning out of pictures on the wall and from the fringes of rugs on the floor, ignores the way Alan keeps moving back and the way that the Spark-ward swallows up and burns through every single attack on both him and Lydia, light flaring and heat radiating in little spikes of sunshine and moonglow around them. </p>
<p>When Peter gets to Alan, his claws and fangs are out, his eyes are bright red, and the Spark is almost visible as it pulses in great, shuddering rhythms of radiance around him. As soon as Peter's close enough, the light of the ward knocks Alan off-balance even as Peter's claws dig into the man's arms and tug him up. He throws Alan into an armchair and before he can ask Lydia for the rope she's carrying, the Spark binds his arms, legs, and throat to the chair in a gloriously complicated knot of light. </p>
<p>Lydia, having followed him, huffs and drops the rope to the side. "I wish Stiles would've said we wouldn't need the rope," she mutters. "I carried that all the way here." </p>
<p>"I'll carry it back," Peter promises, soothing her. She gives him a look clearly meant to indicate that she's not stupid and she would've made Peter anyway; Peter laughs. He gestures, then, to the bookshelves around them, and tells Lydia, "I'm sure the Spark's already taken off the spells covering the books. Would you like to start looking through them now or ask your questions first?" </p>
<p>Alan, watching them, doesn't say anything. His eyes do flick, however, to one of the cabinets in the kitchen. Lydia, evidently having seen that as well, turns her back on Alan and goes into the kitchen, opens the cabinet and then pauses, scent flaring with a combination of honeysuckle curiosity and the ice-tinged hailstorm of a gathering fury. </p>
<p>"Must be quite the collection," Peter tells Alan, turning back to the man. "Mind telling us where your tote bags are? We only brought the two but judging from Lydia's scent, we're going to need more than that." </p>
<p>Alan doesn't reply. Peter hadn't expected him to do so; he just gives Alan a large smile and perches on the couch's armrest, arms folded loosely over his chest while he waits for Lydia to finish her perusal. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>By the time Lydia's got the contents of the cabinet spread out on the counter, Peter's gotten up and started peering through the collection, bored of sitting and watching Alan glare at him. Most of the assortment is pretty par for the course -- mountain ash, mistletoe, a few different types of aconite, a couple different vials of oils that reek of blood, even a jar of iron filings -- but then there's a vial designated 'Holy Oil - Aqaba,' one that claims to be water from melted-down Winterlands snow, and a jar labelled as being incubus venom. Some of the substances Lydia pulls from the back of the cabinet are darker than Peter would've expected a druid to deal with, but then he sees something unmarked, a mason jar with two hairs inside of it, one of them pure black, one pure white. Peter eyes them carefully, holds the jar up for Alan to see, and asks, "What's this?" </p>
<p>The look that crosses Alan's face isn't one that Peter can easily name. There's sadness in there, some viciousness, some horror, a little bit of reluctant joy. "Unicorn hair," Alan says. "One pure, one corrupted. The only things that could possibly <i>begin</i> to affect a Spark's wards. If I'd known he was awakened, I would've used both." </p>
<p>"You say awakened rather than ignited or even unlocked," Peter says. "Why?" </p>
<p>"Druidic language, I suppose," Alan says. "Sparks prefer to deal in terminology of light and heat, so they call it ignition; they're the only ones apart from shifters." He shrugs, winces at the pull of Spark-rope around him. Peter smells the faintest tinge of burnt hair. "It all means the same in the end." </p>
<p>Lydia pulls out the last Ziploc from the top shelf, carefully handling it over to Peter. He looks down, sees that it's unmarked, and raises an eyebrow. He doesn't need a label to know <i>exactly</i> what's inside this baggie; the thing's intact but after all these years, the scent is so ingrained in the plastic that Peter doesn't have to open it to smell the contents. </p>
<p>A clipping of Talia's fur from her full shift. </p>
<p>Peter drops the baggie down on the counter next to everything else and helps Lydia down from where she'd been kneeling on the formica. She's the one who stalks over to Alan, then, and stops in front of him, puts her hands on her hips. </p>
<p>"Why Scott?" Lydia asks, tone flat. Her grey glow, faint in the light of the Spark, has only grown darker while they've been in Alan's house, but now, standing face-to-face with him, it's grown so thick that it's almost black. Peter blinks, narrows his eyes as he scans the space around her. There's the faintest impression of some sort of -- shroud, thin and insubstantial but lingering in his focused vision, something gauzy and wispy around the edges of her aura, thicker over her torso. "Why choose him?" </p>
<p>"Because he's a good person," Alan replies, evenly. "Because he's worthy of the title. He was bitten against his will and yet he has the moral fortitude to move on, to be <i>better</i>. Derek didn't know what he was doing, Laura abandoned her territory, and the less said about you," he says to Peter, glaring, "the better. The Hales have had their chance in this town and they squandered it. Scott's merciful, just, honourable." </p>
<p>Peter snorts. "He's only merciful because he's too weak to kill," he says from where he's leaning against the couch. "He's only just because he has people to take the brunt of those decisions for him, rather than stepping forward to protect his pack. And honour? He might be doing what he thinks is right, living up to some internal sense of righteousness that no one else could ever meet, but his moral compass wavers more than grass in the wind. He's only able to act the way he does and get away with it because of you and because of Stiles. He's a <i>child</i> who refuses to accept the gift he's been given and hasn't learned the first thing about what he is <i>now</i>." </p>
<p>Alan leans forward -- as much as the Spark-bindings let him, anyway -- and says, "You're the one who bit him. He never wanted the bite and he never wanted <i>you</i>. I've just been trying to make sure your mistake doesn't ruin him." </p>
<p>"I'd thought you'd done something to him," Lydia says. "I'd hoped for it. But all you did was prop up his ego. He's ruined everything and everyone else all on his own." She shakes her head, asks, softly, "What kind of emissary <i>are</i> you?" </p>
<p>"I serve the balance," Alan says. He sounds, even now, almost proud, and his scent <i>burns</i> with the zeal of a true believer. "This town fell into the darkness decades ago. Scott presents a chance for the light to expose all of the rot and corruption, and bring balance back to the nemeton and the territory." </p>
<p>Peter narrows his eyes, says, idly, "You've done a lot in the name of your precious balance. Lifting up Scott to make up for the Hales, as if Talia and Scott were opposites when they're more alike, is one thing, but sabotaging the McCall pack, withholding your knowledge, trying to kill teenagers. Your balance asked you to do all these things?" </p>
<p>Alan's nose wrinkles. "Scott's better than a Hale," he says. "Better than Talia. He doesn't have to force bonds on people to get them to follow them. They follow of their own free will, because they recognise his <i>goodness</i>."</p>
<p>Peter honestly can't believe what he's hearing. It's one thing for Alan to be so blinded, it's another to actually <i>praise</i> an alpha for eschewing the bonds and support of a true pack. There is such deep communion in the bonds, such close connection, and, even beyond that, a support network for everyone from the alpha to the weakest beta. Perhaps Alan's time as Talia's emissary blinded him to the benefits of the bonds -- or perhaps being connected to Talia when she gave up the alpha spark, either by choice or in the moment of her death, cracked something inside of Alan apart, too jagged and broken to heal.</p>
<p>"I have to admit," Lydia says, slowly, "that I was skeptical of pack bonds. Scott never needed them, never seemed to feel like being bonded was necessary. He expected people to trust him without the bonds, expected people to behave like a pack without anything that would <i>make</i> them pack. When Peter offered, I was -- apprehensive. I'd read about the ritual, of course, but it seemed -- silly, on some level." She gives Peter a fleeting look, then, apologetic but not ashamed, and Peter has just enough time to nod at her and press understanding through the bond before she looks back at Alan. "It's anything <i>but</i>. There's something so reassuring about the bond, something so -- so intimate, I suppose. I can feel my pack. I can communicate with them, in a sense, without needing to be physically near them. There's comfort and support, the promise of connection. I --." </p>
<p>Lydia stops, shakes her head. Peter moves, at that, just enough to reach out and squeeze Lydia's shoulder. She lets out a deep breath at the touch, turns into it enough to brush her cheek over the top of Peter's hand. </p>
<p>"Why kill Stiles?" she asks. </p>
<p>"Because I serve the balance," Alan says, his eyes gleaming with the fanaticism of a man beyond help. "You've studied statistics, Lydia, so you understand the concept of regression to the mean. The world is meant to exist on a continuum, good and evil existing in balance, every action, both good and evil, weighing out in the end. A Spark is -- anathema to the idea of balance."</p>
<p>Peter frowns. "But if the balance is good and bad -- Sparks are amoral. They're neither good nor bad. The power they possess is immense, yes, but if your priority is on some moral or ethical equivalency, then Sparks aren't an outlier, they're not even a variable." </p>
<p>Alan gives Peter a look that <i>screams</i> his disdain for Peter's intelligence. "Sparks might consider themselves amoral but they aren't. They have more feeling in them than any human, more capacity for love and hate than any other being could ever feel. They bind that up when they awaken, hide it all away. That's why it's <i>our</i> job to judge them and what they do. Actions can be intrinsically good or evil, no matter the reason why they're taken or why the person who took them did what they chose to do. You have to see, Peter," Alan says, intently, almost pleading, "alpha or not, Sparks are <i>dangerous</i>. They consider themselves above natural law. Sparks have murdered and pillaged their way through history, carried out every fleeting whim with no thought to anyone else. By their very existence, they destroy the balance that keeps us all alive. It is up to those who know them, who exist in their spheres of influence, to serve as their judges, juries, and executioners. It is one of our most sacred duties to humanity." </p>
<p>"The thought of us judging a Spark," Peter says, shaking his head. He pauses, momentarily, as a shiver of satisfaction runs through his bond with Malia, as the Spark around him and Lydia flickers brighter for a split second. Peter swallows back the howl of triumph that wants to claw its way free of his throat. "It's ludicrous. It's like an ant trying to judge a human's actions." </p>
<p>Alan sits back in the chair, says, "Sparks aren't worthy of adulation. Access to that kind of magic -- it's unnatural. We aren't meant to wield that amount of power. Sparks are abominations that need to be eliminated no matter the cost." </p>
<p>Peter's humour instantly disappears. He scowls at Alan, feels wrath build up inside of him as the wolf snarls, feels his bond to Derek and Malia quiver, feels the way Stiles shoots them all his support and comfort, as Danny's bond turns awestruck and Lydia's frosts over with fury. </p>
<p>"Kill him," Lydia says, "before I do it." </p>
<p>"Will you scream for me?" Alan asks Lydia. "Will you mourn me?</p>
<p>Lydia glares at him. "I won't waste my breath on you," she says. If she was a wolf, Peter would expect to see claws and fangs with the level of hostility in her voice. Instead, he looks at her and sees the shadows around her thicken, begin to dance on their own, the thin shroud covering her fluttering in a breeze that Peter can't feel.</p>
<p>Peter gets close to Alan, close enough to whisper in his ear as his claws emerge from under his nails. "My daughter just killed your sister. We're going to kill Kristian as well. You failed, Alan. I would've been content to run you out of town but you tried to hurt my <i>mate</i> and I couldn't disagree with you more: Sparks aren't abominations. They deserve our <i>reverence</i>. I'll spend the rest of my life worshipping Stiles as is his due and I'll kill anyone who so much as <i>thinks</i> about trying to hurt him or anyone else in my pack." </p>
<p>With no hesitation, Peter digs his claws into Alan's throat and <i>pulls</i>.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Peter washes his hands and claws off in the kitchen sink and then texts Derek, tells him that they're ready and Alan's home is secure. Derek texts back that he and Malia will meet them there and bring Morrell's body with them; it shouldn't take long. Peter tells Derek to be careful and then puts his phone back away. </p>
<p>The extra time gives Peter and Lydia a chance to go through Alan's books. Lydia's already started at one end of the bookcase, taking out tomes and texts when the mood suits her. Peter considers starting at the other end but instead starts packing away all the things from Alan's cabinet. They'll take everything to the vault once they're done disposing of the bodies and go through the spoils later, together, at their leisure. </p>
<p>"You know," Lydia says, as she's flipping through one of Alan's books, "if we get caught, they're going to say this was a hate crime." Peter blinks, looks over his shoulder at her, and she looks up, shrugs. "We're all white. Morrell and Deaton weren't, and Deaton's one of Scott's biggest fans -- Scott, who has an asshole father in the FBI who'd probably be more than happy to see Stiles in jail for the rest of his life on hate crime charges. Better make sure Stiles has a good disposal plan." </p>
<p>Peter thinks back to the way Kate disappeared along with every sign of her presence and her berserkers, and gives Lydia a smile. "I have full faith in him." </p>
<p>She rolls her eyes, mutters something under her breath about Peter not needing to lean in so hard to the creepy factor. Peter laughs, can't help it, and his eyes go back to Deaton's body, slumped over in the chair, blood drying on his skin, still tied up by Spark-light. He has no respect for Alan Deaton but he can admit that he's impressed the man died for his beliefs and met that death with his eyes wide open. Playing the game of supernatural politics always has the threat of death associated with it but Alan walked through life with his head held high, and Peter can appreciate that even if he's disgusted by the man's words and actions. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>It's not long before there's a howl from the woods. Peter howls back, goes to the front door and opens it. A couple minutes later, Derek and Malia appear out of the darkness. Malia's got blood around her mouth, spray of droplets across her shirt and in her hair, one or two drops dried on her forehead, smeared as if she scratched at them. </p>
<p>"At least you were less messy," Derek mutters, looking Peter over. "I'm gonna need to get my car detailed."</p>
<p>"I have a feeling we'll be okay," Peter says, stepping to the side so Derek and Malia can come in. Derek does, immediately heads for the kitchen and, presumably, Lydia. </p>
<p>Malia lingers next to Peter, waits for Derek to get distracted with Lydia and whatever she's doing, before she asks, "Is it always going to be so easy?" </p>
<p>Peter hums. "Stiles gives us an extreme advantage, that's true," he admits, "but I don't think we should rely on him all the time. He's pissed now because they were messing with his wards. If they hadn't?" He shakes his head, shrugs one shoulder. "Might not've done anything. Might've joined us with the Spark locked down and as human as he's pretended to be. There's really no way of knowing." </p>
<p>"Lydia's been filling Danny in on what's happened in Beacon Hills since you bit Scott," Malia says. "Stiles has been a Spark for a lot of those things."</p>
<p>"He had his reasons to let them play out," Peter says. "He had his reasons to stay silent and pretend to be human." </p>
<p>Malia gives him a long, studying look, eventually says, "You're not happy with those reasons. Are you." </p>
<p>Peter huffs out a small breath, almost a laugh but not quite. "No," he admits. "But I understand many of them. And the ones that I don't, I don't have the right to question." </p>
<p>"The nogitsune," Malia guesses. "The substitution sacrifice that released the nogitsune and his invitation to let it possess him." She pauses, then says, quietly, "He did it to save me. He didn't even <i>know</i> me." </p>
<p>"I think maybe he did," Peter says, wrapping one arm around Malia's shoulders, "in some way. But whether he did or didn't, it was his choice. He thought you were worth it, Malia." Malia makes a noise as a certain sense of resolve and determination fills her scent. Peter ruffles a hand through her hair and asks, "You're all right? With tonight, I mean?"</p>
<p>Malia wriggles out of Peter's hold and gives him an unimpressed look. "Her house smelled like onions," she tells him. "And not even fresh onions. Derek made us bring a bunch of her books and things he said would be useful and the smell stuck. It's all over the car."</p>
<p>Peter resists the urge to laugh; he'd noticed the lingering odor but hadn't asked about it. He leans down to inhale the scent, picks up the rank tang of rotten onions, and wrinkles his nose. Even as a human, the intensity of such a smell would have had to annoy Morrell, which meant she had those onions rotting in her house for a reason. </p>
<p>Before Peter can ask, Malia says, "Derek had that look on his face, too. She had a secret room behind her pantry." Malia cocks her head as if the thought's suddenly occurred to her and asks, "Can we have a secret room in the pack house? I know we'll have the tunnels but a secret room seems like something we should have." </p>
<p>"I'll mention it to the architect," he tells Malia. Her mouth opens and he adds, "We'll make sure it's not on the blueprints that get submitted to the city. What did you find in Morrell's secret room?" </p>
<p>"Books," Malia says. "And some boxes. We brought it all with us. Derek figured Lydia might like it but I think Stiles will like the books." </p>
<p>Peter laughs a little. "We've got most of Alan's things ready to go as well. Looks like we'll be spending some time in the vault in the next few weeks. Come on, let's go get Morrell out of Derek's car before her smell sinks in." He follows Malia outside, taking his phone out and calling Stiles as he moves. </p>
<p>Stiles answers with a cheery, "<i>So Danny's bonded with the wards like you would not believe; I think that magic of his will help me burn out the nemeton's corruption in two minutes flat.</i>" </p>
<p>Peter pauses, asks, "Are you -- you're not telling me that the territory wards run <i>through</i> the nemeton, are you?" </p>
<p>"<i>Uh. Well. No</i>," Stiles says. "<i>I am not telling you that the territory wards run through the nemeton. Because that would be a lie, because the wards do not run through the nemeton</i>." </p>
<p>There's scrabbling on the other end of the phone, cursing from Stiles, the sound of a light smack to what Peter thinks might be an arm, and then Danny says, "<i>The wards don't run through the nemeton; the wards are </i>anchored<i> on the nemeton. And to be honest, Stiles has explained it to me three different ways and I still don't get it but this fucking tree, Peter, it's </i>amazing." </p>
<p>A number of words come to Peter's mind when he thinks about the nemeton and not one of them is 'amazing.' "I'm glad you're having fun," he says, dryly, while he's forcing his heartbeat to steady. "The wards are fixed?" </p>
<p>"<i>Yeah, they feel much better now</i>," Danny says, "<i>and Stiles says that we're gonna raise them from alarm clock to bug zapper, whatever that means. Are you guys done? Derek and Mal are at Deaton's house with you and Lyds</i>?" </p>
<p>"We're all here," Peter says. "Lydia's finishing going through Alan's books. Can I talk to Stiles again?" </p>
<p>Danny mutters under his breath and Stiles says, "<i>Oof</i>," as Danny must thrust or throw the phone back to him. </p>
<p>Peter and Malia get to the Camaro; Peter covers his nose with his hand as the stench of dead druid wafts up and out once Malia pops the trunk. He blinks when he sees the corpse; suddenly he realises why Derek said what he did about not getting messy. Morrell's throat has been ripped out -- by teeth, it looks like -- and she has deep claw-scratches going down both arms from shoulder almost to wrist, matching claw marks along one shoulder. </p>
<p>He glances at Malia, who shrugs and says, "She tried to run." Peter looks back at the body, the way Morrell's hands are swollen, fingers crooked at unusual angles as if every bone is broken. He turns back to Malia and she says, without any concern, "She was trying to spell us. The Spark burned the illusions away but I wanted to make sure she couldn't try again."</p>
<p>"<i>Tell Malia she's amazing</i>," Stiles says. Peter doesn't have to; Malia heard him, is preening and glowing with the praise. "<i>You ready for me to disappear them</i>?" </p>
<p>"More than," Peter says. </p>
<p>A moment later, white-hot light floods out from the wards around Peter and Malia and flies over the Camaro, centred on the trunk. Peter hears a reflexive shriek of surprise from inside the house and blinks back stars in his vision while the ringing in his ears calms down. The brightness lingers, eventually fades out in glittering streams that wrap around Peter and Malia again before twinkling out like far-distant dying stars. When Peter's eyesight clears, the trunk is empty and the smell of onions and death has been burned away, leaving behind the slightest scent of ozone and lemon. </p>
<p>"Thank you, Stiles," Peter says. "We'll be leaving Alan's in the next few minutes. Meet you back at home?" </p>
<p>"<i>Can't wait</i>," Stiles replies. "<i>I'll text when we get back to the car</i>." </p>
<p>Stiles hangs up, but not before he hears Danny yelp in what he thinks is shock. Peter huffs in amusement, shakes his head, and takes a deep breath of fresh air. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>By the time Peter and Malia go back inside, Lydia's scrounged up some boxes and bags, and she and Derek have filled them all with books and the contents of Alan's kitchen cabinet. Peter's expecting to see a large hole on the bookshelf but Lydia's filled it in with books from other shelves and knick-knacks, as if the empty spaces are meant to be there. </p>
<p>Derek huffs at the approving noise Peter makes, then asks, "You couldn't have given us a warning about Stiles? Neither of us was expecting the light to just come and magic Deaton away."</p>
<p>"Sorry," Peter says, completely unapologetically. Derek rolls his eyes, bumps his shoulder against Peter's. "Are you two ready to pack up and get going?" </p>
<p>"I think so," Lydia says. "I'll be furious if we've missed anything important but some of the books seem promising enough to make up for it." She looks around once more, then back to Peter, nods. "How do you want to do this?" </p>
<p>Peter exchanges glances with Derek then turns back to Lydia, smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "No sense in packing up both cars. Since Derek and Malia already have Morrell's things in the Camaro, let's pack these in the trunk. Once that's done, why don't you and Derek drop everything at the vault?" </p>
<p>It might make more sense for Derek and Peter to go, or even Derek and Malia, with their shifter-strength and familiarity with the vault. The message of sending Lydia, though, of giving Derek the chance to introduce her to their family treasures and what it says about how much the remaining Hales trust her -- that appeals to him. It appeals to Lydia, too, must, because she bestows one of her honest, crooked smiles at him, the kind that shines more through her eyes than curves up her lips. Derek, too, appreciates it; he reeks of embarrassed happiness and the reflections that Peter's getting through the bonds only cement his decision. </p>
<p>Still, Peter takes the time to look at Malia, raise an eyebrow in question to make sure that <i>she</i> is okay with the decision. She just rolls her eyes, hefts one of the boxes of books in her arms, and says, "Let's pack up and get out of here." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>They load everything into the Camaro and Peter sends Derek and Lydia off to drop everything at the vault. He and Malia make sure the house looks clean enough before they leave; Peter has no doubt that Stiles is going to send his Spark through both houses to erase any stray fingerprints or DNA they might have left behind but he doesn't want to rely entirely on the Spark. He and Malia rearrange some of the contents of the kitchen cabinets -- leaving one entirely empty will certainly raise suspicions -- and then go. </p>
<p>As they're tracking back through the woods to Peter's car, he hears popping. He looks up, sees fireworks going off in the sky, red and gold and green and blue arching out in spirals and flaring wide across the sky. Malia laughs, jumps on Peter's back and he grabs her legs as she wraps them around his waist, her arms resting loose on his shoulders. </p>
<p>"Think Stiles'll let us keep the ward?" she asks, murmuring the question directly into Peter's ear as he's looking up to watch the light show. "If it means we get to see things like this?" </p>
<p>"I don't know," Peter says, his eyes wide and his scent rearing with wonder as the light from the fireworks spawns smaller and smaller fireworks until the sky is glittering like it's filled with millions of fireflies. The lights hang there, threads leading out from each one and tangling together in the spaces between the miniature stars until they form a net that stretches over, Peter thinks, the entire county. The spectacle of it takes his breath away, leaves his heart pounding as he sees each glittering spark catch fire and burn into brilliant blinding sun before they all fade away, disappearing in the darkness. </p>
<p>Malia squeezes her legs tight, then, and says, "We'll ask him." </p>
<p>Peter pats Malia's leg, nods absently, mind still caught on the beauty of what must be Stiles' territory wards as he starts walking again.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>When they get back to the townhouse, Malia goes upstairs to take a shower and Peter texts Stiles, letting him and Danny know where everyone's at and that they appreciated the light show. </p>
<p>Stiles texts back a moment later, just says, <i>We're finishing up here</i>. </p>
<p>Peter frowns; he'd expected that Stiles and Danny would be done and on their way back to the car already. Before Peter can text back, he hears the Camaro park outside. Peter starts to gather up snacks, puts the kettle on to boil, and by the time Derek and Lydia are inside, taking off coats and shoes, Malia's bounding down the steps, wet hair bound up in a towel. </p>
<p>"Would've expected you two to take longer," Peter says, as Malia sits down at the counter and starts tearing apart slices of sopressata and pepperoni with her teeth. </p>
<p>Lydia sits down next to Malia, says, "No point in going through things tonight," as she tugs the pita chips and hummus closer. </p>
<p>"Better when we're all together," Derek adds, taking out the leftover meatballs from the fridge and putting them in the microwave to heat up. "You and Stiles will know if we already have copies of the books, and you'll both have a better idea of the odds and ends we picked up from Morrell's, whether any of it's worth keeping." </p>
<p>Peter nods thoughtfully, says, "Maybe we can go over next weekend. I assume people will be at the school late this week with last-minute exam prep?" </p>
<p>Malia makes a face, mutters, "Dad wants me to do the ones for math." </p>
<p>"Obviously you'll be studying with me and Stiles and Danny," Lydia says. "The school's idea of test prep is worse than useless. Besides, I think Danny and Stiles have -- hm. Liberated? Some of the finals from the last couple years. We'll study off those." Peter gives Lydia a look and she lifts her chin. "Study smarter, not harder." </p>
<p>"Can't argue with that logic," Peter admits, not when he's used much the same motto, tweaked for each situation, throughout his life. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>The four snack, exchange idle conversation, and finally, about half an hour later, Stiles texts that he and Danny are back at the car and on their way home. Peter's lips curve up into a smile entirely against his will at that word: <i>home</i>. He's not sure what his scent does, what kinds of happiness and low-grade arousal start to run through it, but he can guess by the way Malia rolls her eyes and Derek elbows him none-too-gently. Even Lydia gives him a narrow-eyed look. He raises his eyebrow in question and Lydia shakes her head. </p>
<p>"You were thinking about Stiles, weren't you," she guesses. "Some of the," and she gestures in the area around his hands and head, "it flickered, the way it did when you kissed him before we all split up. Something about the wolf, I think." </p>
<p>"No apologies," Peter says, elbowing Derek back and putting the kettle on to boil. He needs a refill for his tea and no doubt Stiles and Danny will want something warm as well; it might be the very beginnings of summer but the preserve can get cold after the sun goes down. He puts some bread in the toaster and by the time the kettle's boiling and Peter's got two sandwiches made, one each for Danny and Stiles, the two are walking in the door, smelling like windswept trees and winter rain, preceded by the bright, shimmering threads of the Spark. </p>
<p>Peter squints against the light as Stiles comes right to him, snuggles in close and dips his hands into the back pockets of Peter's jeans, burying his face in Peter's throat. Danny goes for the food, smells appreciative as he bites into his sandwich. Peter turns his head enough to rub his chin against Stiles' hair, the heat of the Spark warming him up from the inside.</p>
<p>"What kind of tea would you like?" Peter asks Danny. "And what did the druids do to the wards?" </p>
<p>"Do you have peppermint?" Danny asks, after he swallows a bite of the sandwich, full of provolone and deli meats that Peter snuck out from under Malia's claws. Peter nods, pulls Stiles along as he goes to the cabinet with the tea, takes out a box. "And -- Stiles called it piggybacking, but it was -- I mean, it was clever, they <i>hacked</i> the wards, used something to -- to kind of not negate Stiles' magic but pull it apart and pull attention to it?" He frowns, sets down the sandwich -- already half-eaten -- to take the mug of tea when Peter offers it to him, says, "It made more sense when I was connected to them. It's hard to describe." </p>
<p>Stiles peels himself away from Peter and takes the other mug from Peter, holding it in his hands and leaning one hip against the counter. "The wards were set to alert me if any magic was performed within their bounds by someone other than me," he says, between sips of tea. "They were also set to -- enforce, I suppose, any of <i>my</i> spells. The ritual those three idiots did was meant to reverse the original intent. Hence I didn't feel the effects of Danny waking up and hence Amanda saw the bitemark."</p>
<p>Peter asks, "But the pack didn't?" at the same time as Lydia, evidently having caught something interesting in what Stiles has just explained, says, "Idiots?" </p>
<p>"Idiots because they stayed magically connected to the ritual," Stiles says. "Druids have a tendency to do that even if the smart thing would've been to find another way to power it; it has something to do with their vows, I think. Even if we hadn't killed them, the power they have is finite -- enough for any normal wards but not enough for a Spark's wards. The ritual was feeding on their magic; once the magic was depleted, they would've been feeding it with their lives. I give it --," and he pauses, thinks for a moment, "maybe another week before it would've eaten enough to knock them unconscious? Kristian could've bolstered his with his pack bonds and I suppose it's possible Deaton could've drawn from Scott, but I don't think Morrell had any bonds and with her out of the picture, the ritual would've failed anyway." </p>
<p>"I'd rather we take care of threats," Peter says, "than trust on them fading out by themselves." </p>
<p>Stiles shrugs one shoulder, sips his tea, says, "Same, honestly. And before you ask, Kristian won't feel what we did. I've hooked his part of the ritual into the new wards. He'll feed them until he dies, whether that's tomorrow or in a week. Not necessary, but --." He stops there, shrugs again. Peter's never been more charmed by Stiles' unbelievable <i>pettiness</i> than he is right now.</p>
<p>Derek, scent ringing with curiosity, asks, "The pack?" </p>
<p>"I have a closer relationship with pack," Stiles says. "You aren't affected by the territory wards because you're tied to me through pack bonds. There's no need for my magic to work on <i>you</i>, not when you're caught in my personal feedback loop." He waves one hand, says, "Sort of. I put the no-see-'em on the mark; pack bonds loop our pack into it, the wards loop everyone else into it. I'm not explaining it right but that's why Amanda saw through it when Mal and Derek didn't." </p>
<p>Malia and Derek both smell and look like they're not bothered by learning that they've been under the influence of Stiles' magic -- Derek because of the claim, Peter thinks, or maybe a born wolf's innate reverence for a Spark, and Malia because Stiles is her alpha -- and Danny doesn't look surprised, maybe because he learned all of this when he was connected to Stiles' magic, but Lydia -- Lydia looks <i>furious</i>. </p>
<p>"You've had a spell on me?" she asks, voice low, the thin, ephemeral shroud coming into view again. "Doing what, Stiles?" </p>
<p>"Hiding a bitemark," Stiles replies evenly, meeting Lydia's eyes with no shame or apology. Light flares up behind him, his Spark-wings growing in size, an unspoken warning mirrored by the way that licking flames of luminescence start to coalesce around Stiles' hands. "One that's just for me and Peter."</p>
<p>Danny reaches over, puts a hand on Lydia's shoulder. He waits until she takes her eyes off of Stiles and looks at Danny before he says, gently, "Nothing bad, Lyds. Magical concealer, nothing more." He looks at Stiles, lifts his chin to send her attention over to Stiles as well, says, "See that tiny little bonfire on his neck? That's all it is. Just something to make sure that whatever that mark looks like, it's only for Peter to see. You know what that's like." </p>
<p>Lydia thaws -- slowly, but she does unwind, the shadows around her dissipating in the light of the Spark's brilliance as it reaches out, draws streamers of radiance across Lydia's cheeks, her shoulders, twining around her arms and wrists and hands before swimming away and disintegrating into a hundred little flashes of starlight sparkles. The sight brings a smile to her face and she relaxes, giving Stiles a nod of understanding and apology. </p>
<p>They descend into silence, Stiles finishing his tea and picking up the sandwich that Peter made for him, Malia eating the last slice of pepperoni, Danny sneaking some of Lydia's hummus. Peter waits until Stiles has eaten most of his sandwich before saying, "I'd like to know why you anchored the wards to the nemeton." </p>
<p>Derek, halfway through a sip of water, nearly chokes in surprise. "What?" he asks, once he's recovered. "You did <i>what</i>?" </p>
<p>Stiles rolls his eyes. "The nemeton isn't <i>evil</i>," he says. "It's just -- confused right now. But it's being fixed." </p>
<p>"Explain," Derek demands. </p>
<p>"The nemeton and I -- we're connected, is probably the best word for it," Stiles says, after laying a heavy look on Derek. "Not bound, though that might have happened if I hadn't ignited before the substitution ritual or if I'd chosen the tree to anchor me rather than Peter, but -- we're aware of each other. We have an understanding and it appreciates that I -- it didn't like the nogitsune anymore than Lydia, so it's willing to give me a little help when I ask. With the way that it moves, the way that it holds magic better than almost anything else, I felt that anchoring the centre of the wards to it was the best option. It agreed."</p>
<p>Danny speaks up then, his eyes gleaming. "The wards, the way they worked, they were cleansing the nemeton, too," he says. "Because the wards weren't strong, it was a gradual thing." </p>
<p>Peter guesses, "But the wards are stronger now, so it'll be cleansed faster?"</p>
<p>"We'll have to do a ritual at some point," Stiles says. "Tie it back to the Hales, claim it properly for the territory, maybe one final push of cleansing, but -- yeah. So relax, Mr. Grumpy," he says, looking at Derek. "The nemeton's just a tree. A smart tree, and one that's magically aware, but it's been used and abused and just needs someone -- or some pack -- to actually take care of it rather than just shove magic at it. Before, I would've said that we had a year or two before we'd need to do the ritual," he says, turning back to Peter. "Now? Maybe a month? Just enough time to bring Danny up to speed so he can perform it." </p>
<p>Danny blinks, scent flushing with surprise. "What? Me?" </p>
<p>Stiles gives Danny a grin, flicks his eyes to Peter so fast that Peter thinks he might be the only one who noticed. "Of course?" Stiles says, innocently. "Something easy for our emissary's first ritual." </p>
<p>"Wait," Malia says, eyes going wide. Her bond sings with distress, enough that a growl of comfort slips out of Peter's throat before he even consciously realises he needs to reassure his daughter. "I thought <i>you</i> were our -- you're not going anywhere, are you? Not leaving?" </p>
<p>"What? No!" Stiles says, sliding past Peter and Lydia so he can wrap an arm around Malia, pull her close, rub his nose against her temple. "No, of course not. But a pack with two emissaries is better than a pack with one, and it'll suit Danny more than it does me -- for a lot of reasons. But no, Mal, I'm not going anywhere. Even if I'm not the main emissary, I'm still Peter's mate and half of the alpha pair of this pack. You're all <i>mine</i>. I wouldn't leave you." </p>
<p>Malia makes a noise of relief, leans into Stiles and closes her eyes as he holds her, spreads his scent over her. Peter watches, sends his own reassurance down his bonds to both Malia and Stiles. In the quiet, Stiles says, "I should take the wards off you guys now. Give you some time to adjust your vision back to normal before bedtime." </p>
<p>Danny opens his mouth but Peter speaks first, tells him and Lydia, "I'd like it if you both stayed tonight. I think we need that, as a pack." He exhales, reminds himself that this is <i>his pack</i> and if he can't be truthful with them, they have a much larger problem to address, and hesitantly clarifies, "I need it." </p>
<p>"I'm good to stay," Danny says, shrugging. </p>
<p>Everyone looks at Lydia, who sighs. "Thank god it's the weekend," she says. "I assume I can steal pyjamas from someone?" </p>
<p>Stiles grins, says, "We have extras. Looking forward to seeing you and Danny in superhero pjs, though, not even gonna lie." </p>
<p>Lydia rolls her eyes even as Danny laughs and Derek mutters something under his breath about Stiles' idea of appropriate nighttime wear. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Stiles pulls back the wards on all of them, licking his thumb and then swiping that over the remnants of dried blood on everyone's foreheads. Peter exchanges glances with Malia, gives her a silent promise that he hasn't forgotten their earlier discussion, and though she snarls a little as Stiles' ward wears off, she doesn't argue. </p>
<p>It takes a long time for Peter's vision to settle back to normal. The Spark-light threads weaving their way throughout the room are the first to go, disappearing one at a time. The coloured auras fade away next, the shield of light around Stiles dissipates into nothing at roughly the same time though it's another half an hour or so of everyone fighting over the last of the snacks and, then, the bathroom, before the last of Stiles' wings and coronet flicker out of sight. He's still glowing, though, that shimmering starlight glow, and it's not until they're all squished in Peter's bed that it ebbs away entirely, locked back under Stiles' tight control. </p>
<p>Peter pulls Stiles close, one hand spread out on the skin of Stiles' belly, underneath his shirt, and inhales the scent of a content mate and pack deep, holds his breath to savour it, exhales slow and reluctantly. Stiles makes a noise of contentment, Danny shifts, and Peter falls asleep.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Chapter 28</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When the alarm goes off, Stiles is closest to the nightstand, so he's the one who flings his arm out and starts poking at everything in order to make the noise stop. Apparently he doesn't move fast enough, because Lydia groans and Malia growls, right before Danny kicks Peter -- hopefully assuming that he's actually kicking Stiles. Derek's the one who climbs over Peter, lands on top of Stiles, and ends up turning off the alarm. </p><p>"Uh," Stiles says, a moment later, voice coming out thin and a little squeaky. "A little squished, here." </p><p>"Make the noise stop faster next time," Derek says. Stiles mutters something unintelligible, wheezes dramatically a few times, and Derek rolls off Stiles and the bed, standing up and giving Stiles a baleful glare. </p><p>Stiles, for his part, merely wriggles onto his back, looks up at Derek, and says, "<i>Dude</i>." </p><p>Peter snorts and gives Stiles a kiss before straddling his mate and then getting off the bed as well. Stiles pouts at him but Lydia asks, through a yawn, "Are you leaving for Alpha Ito's and does that mean we'll be able to go back to sleep?" </p><p>Derek shakes his head and picks up clothes on his way out of the room, scritching Malia's head as he goes. Peter lingers a moment, lets his eyes trail over the four still in his bed: Danny, asleep with his mouth open; Lydia, looking up at him but her blinks lasting longer and longer as she does a poor job of fighting sleep; Malia, in her coyote-form, stretched out with Danny and Lydia's feet pressed to her back, tail wrapped around one of Stiles' ankles; and Stiles himself, spread out, shirt rucked up to show off a strip of his belly, gazing up at Peter, scent full of concern and adoration. </p><p>"You'll be all right?" Stiles asks. He leans up on one elbow, adds, "I can go too, if you want. Satomi would agree to anything if I was there." </p><p>"And that's why you need to stay here, with our packmates," Peter says, giving in to the urge to touch Stiles. </p><p>He trails his fingertips down Stiles' cheek, rubbing his thumb over Stiles' bottom lip. Stiles doesn't dart out his tongue and lick as Peter half-expected, even with the others in their bed and Peter and Derek on a time limit. The fact that Stiles is behaving, rather than flaunting their relationship, means he's serious about the request, serious about his concern. </p><p>"We'll be fine -- and I have a feeling that Satomi won't be that surprised," Peter says. "At the extent of Kristian's betrayal, perhaps. At hearing our request, no. She knows who can give her the better connections and more power in the end, not to mention respect and honesty." He pauses, sees that Stiles isn't entirely convinced, though there's some level of belief rising in his scent even as the worry kicks down a notch. Peter leans in close to Stiles, presses his lips to the top of Stiles' head, breathes in Stiles' smell, fills their bond with his love. </p><p>Stiles hums, says, "Go on, then. Sooner you leave, sooner you'll be back." Peter straightens up; Stiles smiles at him. "Danny'll probably sleep until lunch; he's not used to dealing with the kind of magic he did last night. The rest of us will get moving eventually and I'll make sure we have lunch ready by the time you and Derek get back." </p><p>Lydia forces her eyes open, says, "I'm gonna sleep 'til lunch, too," in a voice that's worn-out and sleep-rough, throaty and ringing with unconscious power. "Take care of Derek. And don't forget to ask Satomi about lessons. I've cancelled my summer enrollment." </p><p>She turns her back on Peter, then, and snuggles close to Danny. Danny doesn't wake up as he wraps an arm around Lydia and pulls her close, a movement that looks so comfortable and familiar that they must've done it a million times before. Stiles watches, small smile on his face, as Malia huffs and shuffles her way up to lie down between Stiles and Lydia, taking Peter and Derek's empty spaces. </p><p>"Watch out for them," Peter murmurs. Stiles nods, digs his fingers into Malia's fur, and waves his other hand for Peter to leave. Peter rolls his eyes but follows Derek's example and picks out some clothes before he leaves the bedroom, closing the door behind him. </p><p>--</p><p>Within fifteen minutes, Peter and Derek are in the car and on their way to Satomi's pack house. Neither of them showered after last night; they both smell like blood, like pack, with the lingering ozone of Stiles' magic in the far reaches of their scents. They're taking a calculated risk, showing up on another pack's territory smelling the way they do; Peter thinks it'll be worth it, though, that it'll lend some strength to their words and their request. </p><p>It's not a long drive to Satomi's -- her pack territory borders theirs on the north side of Beacon County, where the hills and valleys start rising into low, tree-covered mountains -- but Peter and Derek spend the ride chatting idly about last night. Peter's pleased by how enthusiastic Stiles and Danny were, Derek by how calmly and dispassionately Malia killed Morrell. </p><p>"It's not that I won't kill in defense of the pack," Derek starts to say. </p><p>"But you'd rather not," Peter says, cutting Derek off. Derek dips his head, tips of his ears going red, and Peter reaches over, pats the top of Derek's thigh. "Nothing to be ashamed about," he says, and waits for Derek to smell how honest Peter's being. "Everyone in the pack has different strengths, different likes. A strong pack makes use of those differences. You're much better suited to the role of a second than an executioner, and vice-versa for Malia." </p><p>Peter stops there, lets that sink in, as he slows down at a stop sign. There's no other traffic on the road; few people are generally out and about on Sunday mornings unless they're at church or taking advantage of <i>other</i> people being at church to go grocery shopping or hit up restaurants for early brunch before the crowds start in a couple hours. </p><p>He turns, drives along the treeline, and Derek says, "Laura -- Laura never wanted other people in our pack. I think it was because she was scared of losing everyone again. It left her unbalanced, though. Left <i>us</i> unbalanced." </p><p>"I think," Peter says, carefully, "that you're right about her not wanting to lose anyone ever again. I don't know when your mother died in relation to everyone else, but if Laura had inherited the alpha spark and then felt other people -- other pack -- dying, it --." He stops there, shakes his head. </p><p>"I know what it felt like," Derek says. "Boyd. Erica. Even Isaac, to a certain degree." He looks down at his lap, at his hands, says, quietly, "It was almost a relief when I gave up the alpha spark. To not feel the loss that intensely, to not -- a <i>second pack</i>." </p><p>Peter reaches out again, this time takes Derek's hand in his. He doesn't say anything; there's nothing <i>to</i> say. </p><p>--</p><p>Peter pulls into the space in front of Satomi's pack house, sees Satomi waiting on the porch along with Megumi, her second. </p><p>"I hope this goes the way you and Stiles think it will," Derek says, quiet, almost under his breath. </p><p>Peter huffs, scent filling with agreement though he doesn't say anything. He parks and gets out of the car, Derek doing the same, and Satomi comes down the front steps as Peter and Derek close the car doors. </p><p>They meet halfway between the house and the car; Satomi offers Peter her wrist and a smile of greeting. Peter takes her hand, bends just a little, and inhales. He searches out the strands of her pack, tries to see if he can scent any of them, but the overwhelming power of Satomi's wolf outweighs everything else. He lets her hand go, straightens up, and doesn't offer his own wrist. That makes Satomi's eyes gleam in curiosity; it sets something inside her on alert in a way that Peter's scent hadn't, has Megumi baring her teeth at the implied insult. </p><p>"We haven't signed the alliance yet," Satomi says, carefully, "but I had thought that we were here today to finalise it. Has something happened that might stop that?" </p><p>"It might have," Peter says. Satomi's eyes narrow. "I don't want to sign under false pretenses. I thought it better to discuss this new issue first." </p><p>Satomi raises one eyebrow, gestures towards her house. "Let's go inside, then, and talk. I'll summon my emissary --." </p><p>She stops, then, suddenly, cued by something in either Peter or Derek's scent. "Yes," Peter says, softly. "It has to do with Emissary Ito." </p><p>"Oh, <i>Kristian</i>," she murmurs, closing her eyes. Her scent fluctuates wildly between fury and sorrow, between the harsh anger of wild storms and the solemn grief of cemeteries. When she opens her eyes, they gleam red. "Speak plainly, Alpha Hale," she says, formally. "What has my emissary done?" </p><p>"Along with two druids in my territory, he worked a ritual to disrupt my emissary's wards," Peter says. Megumi's heart skips a beat. "We found the interruption quickly and moved to fix it. If we hadn't, then those wards were set to negate my emissary's magic in a way that would undermine my pack's presence in and control of our territory." He pauses, waits until he's gathered the words and set them in his mind, and says, "As is my right as alpha of the territory, I killed one of the druids last night while my pack executioner killed the other. My emissary and emissary-in-training fixed the wards and then set them tighter. At this time, Alpha Ito, my pack formally requests that --" </p><p>He stops, cut off by Satomi raising her hand. She looks grim, her expression tight. "Megumi," she says, without looking over at the beta, "please go inside and find Kristian. Send him out to me. Once he's moving, gather the rest of the pack and bring them outside -- but stay by the house." </p><p>"Yes, alpha," Megumi says, softly, before taking one step back and then turning, disappearing a few moments later through the front doorway. </p><p>"My emissary has wronged your pack," Satomi says after a deep breath. She tilts her head to the side and a little bit back, as well, baring her throat completely to Peter. Derek inhales sharply; Peter doesn't move as Satomi closes her eyes. "I am responsible for him and I apologise to you on his behalf." </p><p>Peter licks his lips, shifts a little on his feet. He -- it's proper to do it this way, to deal with inter-pack attacks like this, but he never expected that Satomi would place <i>herself</i> at Peter's mercy. The Hales and Itos were at one time good allies and Peter's trying to regain that status but they aren't, technically, in any form of alliance at the moment. She doesn't have to do this. </p><p>"You didn't know?" Peter asks. </p><p>Satomi opens her eyes, looks at Peter, even as her scent rings with disgusted refusal. "I didn't know," she says. Her heart beats steadily. </p><p>Peter exhales, says, "Then my quarrel is not with you, Alpha Ito. You hold no blame in this matter." Satomi straightens her neck, dips her head in a shallow incline of acknowledgement. When she straightens her neck, her eyes are back to normal, all signs of the wolf locked back down again. Peter admires her control, the way that her scent maintains a certain layer of dispassion, hiding the truth of what she's feeling. </p><p>Talia was never good at controlling her scent the way Satomi is, the way Peter used to be. She never felt the need for it. </p><p>Peter looks past Satomi as a murmur of noise floats out of the house on a wave; he sees Kristian emerge from inside, face set impassively as he walks down the front steps and over to Satomi's side. When he reaches her left side, he nods in greeting at Peter and Derek, says, "Alpha?" in slight question to Satomi. No doubt the Ito pack was prepared for Peter and Derek to enter the house, sign the treaty inside -- Peter wouldn't be surprised if Satomi prepared tea and snacks for them. Having Kristian come out to her must not have been in the original plan. Still, his scent is full and open; he's not hiding any trepidation or suspicion, which means he must think that no one's discovered the drain on the wards around Peter's territory yet. </p><p>"A question for you," Satomi says. Kristian's brows furrow but he nods, gives Satomi his full attention. "Have you," she begins, her voice low, her tone cold, "gone behind my back to consort with druids in other territories to destabilise the wards of a pack with which I am currently negotiating an alliance?" </p><p>Kristian's heart rate speeds up but he holds Satomi's gaze and says, steadily, "No, alpha." </p><p>His heart doesn't skip. Derek bares his teeth; behind Satomi and Kristian, Peter sees the rest of the Ito pack step out of the house, stand in ranks in front of it. He turns his eyes back to Kristian, reluctantly impressed at how easily Kristian answered the question. It's difficult to lie to wolves, even more difficult to do it on the fly with no preparation. He wonders which word, precisely, of Satomi's inquiry Kristian was able to convince himself was something he could sidestep. </p><p>"Let me rephrase, then," Satomi says. This time, Kristian swallows. "Have you worked rituals with other druids without telling me?"</p><p>"Yes, alpha," Kristian says, but is quick to add, "Not all druidic rituals relate to packs. Some serve our ongoing education, some are meant to strengthen our connection to the territories that we --."</p><p>Satomi cuts him off by raising her hand. She narrows her eyes, tilts her head downwards, hiding her throat. Kristian goes white. "Were any of them," Satomi asks, softly, "rituals that would affect wards in other territories?" </p><p>There's no way Kristian can deny that he's been doing exactly that, and Peter thinks better of the druid -- a little, not much -- for answering honestly, unashamedly, his chin lifting a little. "Yes." </p><p>Satomi's pack, watching, starts to whisper amongst themselves, nothing loud enough for Peter to pick out individual words, but enough for the low susurration of noise to travel over to where he's standing. </p><p>"Were these wards set by a Spark?" Satomi asks. Kristian nods, answers, again, affirmatively. "And were they meant to destabilise these wards?" Kristian pauses; Peter can see him considering the wording of that question. Satomi must as well, because she snaps out, her patience clearly gone, "Do not try to sneak your way around the answer, Kristian. Were they meant to destabilise, harm, attack, undermine, or do anything at all to negatively impact the wards from the perspective of the wardmaker?" </p><p>"Yes, alpha," Kristian says. The volume of his answer is soft but it still travels to the pack gathered near the house. </p><p>Megumi steps forward, in front of the rest of the pack, her jaw dropped and her scent roiling with revulsion and anger. Peter remembers the way she slid off her chair and onto her knees when Stiles' Spark flared in their meeting, the way she refused to meet Stiles' eyes after the clear sign of his displeasure and power. </p><p>"He is an ally of <i>affection</i>," Megumi hisses. "Bound to us by no more than his <i>love</i> for our alpha. And you <i>betrayed</i> that? Betrayed a Spark? Betrayed our <i>alpha</i>?" </p><p>Peter narrows his eyes, watching as Kristian turns to take Megumi in, the emissary's cheeks starting to flush with anger as his heartbeat begins to speed up. "There is no betraying a <i>Spark</i>," he hisses. "They are evil, a curse set upon the world that it is the duty of every being capable of breath and blood to eradicate." </p><p>Satomi breathes out a low string of words that Peter doesn't understand, sounds as if they might be Japanese, shaking her head. She looks at Kristian, then, just <i>looks</i> at him, her scent locked down. "I knew you didn't like him," she says, "but I never knew it went this deep. For that, you have my admiration. It is very hard to trick me and that you have done so to such an extent --." </p><p>Her words trail off into silence and she inhales and exhales a few times in a slow, steady rhythm that looks forced. Satomi's eyes flare crimson and she moves, fast, fast enough to catch Derek off-guard, judging by his intake of breath, almost too fast for Peter to follow. She reaches out, uses her strength to force Kristian to his knees in front of her; he goes down with a muttered curse, hitting the ground hard. Satomi puts one hand under Kristian's chin, her claws digging into and drawing five pricks of blood from him as she forces him to look up at her. </p><p>"I bound you into my pack with my teeth and with my hope," she says. "I remove you with my claws and with my sorrow." </p><p>Megumi lets voice to a long howl, then picks up a slow, high keening. The rest of the pack, still by the house, echo her, their voices twining in and among hers. The noise sends chills down Peter's spine. He's never seen someone get kicked out of a pack like this, with all the solemnity such a decision deserves. He knows what it feels like to lose bonds, though, knows exactly what Megumi and the other betas feel. He wonders how much that feeling of pain, of loss, of emptiness, of betrayal, is amplified in an alpha. Peter longs to reach out to Satomi, to support her, but they aren't allies, not yet, and even if they were, this is not a rite that he can insert himself into. </p><p>Instead, he leans back into Derek, offers Derek his presence as Derek's scent swirls with reluctant horror. Derek presses tight, then gives up any pretense of nonchalance to grab Peter's hand and squeeze, pressing his mouth into the back of Peter's shoulder. </p><p>Blood is trickling in slow and steady drops from the underside of Kristian's chin, some of it falling to his shirt and staining it, most of it landing on Satomi's arms, sliding across her skin and leaving tracks. </p><p>"When you joined my pack," Satomi goes on, Kristian's eyes going wide -- he must have expected that Satomi would have ended the ritual there, kicked him out and then left him in the dust to pick himself up, a stupid expectation and one that shows how much he has never understand Satomi or wolves or pack, "you took vows. You pledged to me your loyalty, your honesty, and your magic. You sealed those vows with your life and as you have now forsaken them, I claim that which is owed to me." </p><p>The scent of Satomi's wolf rears up strong, enough to set Peter's nose to itching, and the beta-shift falls over Satomi as she flexes her hand. Kristian has just enough time to say, "Satomi, <i>please</i> --," before she bends enough to set her palm on Kristian's chest. Without hesitation, she digs her claws into his chest, breaks through his ribs, and rips out his heart. </p><p>As one, the pack howls, a ululating cry of sadness for the action but vicious pride for remaining true to the sacred nature of an alpha-emissary bond and calling in a pledge that may have been entered into with good intentions but grew twisted over the years. Kristian's body slumps to the side, falls to the ground, and Satomi cradles the heart in her hands. She lifts her hands up, inhales the scent of the organ as blood drips through her fingers, and then tears it in half, letting the two pieces fall to the ground. </p><p>Satomi stands there, breathing deep, and it takes her long minutes to swallow back the shift. When she turns to Peter, she looks at him with deep brown eyes and tear tracks on her cheeks. </p><p>"I have tea and snacks waiting inside," Satomi says. "Shall we sign the alliance?" </p><p>Peter steps close to her, offers her both of his hands, palms up and wrists bared. "It would, Alpha Ito, be my greatest pleasure." </p><p>Satomi's lips quirk up on one side and she slides her hands on top of Peter's, smearing blood over Peter's skin as her hands settle, nails -- not claws -- landing on top of the thin skin of Peter's wrists. "Perhaps we could add a temporary clause?" she asks, a hint of her normal good humour peeking through the sadness to flavour her words. "I may have need of a magic-user until I can find an emissary for my pack." </p><p>"I'm sure Stiles would be delighted," Peter says. His eyes flick away from Satomi to settle on Megumi, still standing there, arms folded over her chest, as the rest of the pack goes back into the house, disappearing silently. "I've heard, after all," he says, looking back to Satomi, slight smile on his lips, "that he has bonds of affection with your pack."</p><p>Satomi chuckles, takes her hands off of Peter's and shakes them a little, a few more drops of blood flying onto the ground. "Thank you, Peter." </p><p>--</p><p>Satomi settles Peter and Derek down in the kitchen with Megumi, then excuses herself for a few minutes, no doubt to clean up and also take the opportunity to offer her pack a small measure of consolation in the short time she has. Megumi bustles around, setting a kettle on the stove to boil, laying out food, passing out plates and napkins. Satomi sweeps back into the kitchen when the kettle starts whistling and sits down at the table across from Peter. </p><p>She looks tired, like she's holding back a wave of great hurt and sorrow. Her scent, though, is calm, as contained and controlled as her movements as she pours tea for Peter and Derek, then Megumi and herself. Peter accepts the delicate ceramic cup she hands over, inhales the steam coming off of Satomi's favourite tea before he takes a sip. He's never been a big fan of reishi, even with the slices of ginger Megumi added to the cups, but something about it, the consistency of Satomi's preference, perhaps, provides him a certain measure of comfort. Peter sips, lets the bitter umami flavour sit on his tongue and sink into his throat as he swallows. </p><p>They drink in silence, nibble on small cakes filled with red bean paste, coconut-mango shortbread cookies, mochi rice dumplings, and when the sweets are finished and the cups are emptied, Peter takes the copies of the alliance out of his messenger bag, passes them both over to Satomi. She taps her fingers against the top page, looks up at Peter with a raised eyebrow. "We can add the clause you suggested," Peter says in response to her silent question. "I'll allow you to firm up the wording." </p><p>"No," Satomi says, soft, after a moment's thought. "You're right. Stiles has bonds of affection to my pack. He'd come if I asked and I doubt you'd stop him." She laughs, once, admits, "I suppose he's already considered that, especially since he knew what you were coming here to ask." </p><p>Peter hums, more of acknowledgement than outright agreement. Satomi's mouth quirks up but she says nothing else. Both of them know that Stiles had every right to deal with Kristian himself, even before the attack on the wards, and only his respect for Satomi, Peter thinks, has held him back thus far. Even beyond how much time he's apparently spent with Satomi and her pack, he'd feel obligated to help out whenever and with whatever she needs -- he'll probably do more than she needs.  </p><p>Satomi pages through the alliance, glancing over everything to make sure Peter hasn't inserted anything they didn't already agree on. She gets to the last page, looks up at Peter, holds his gaze. "Any last thoughts?" she asks. </p><p>Peter shakes his head, says, "None." </p><p>Satomi slides over one copy of the alliance to Peter, keeps one for herself. Peter flips to the last page and, almost in sync, Peter and Satomi hold out their dominant hands to their seconds. Neither of them wince as Derek and Megumi use claws to tear deep rips into their alphas' index fingers. Peter signs his copy of the alliance in blood and then trades with Satomi, signing under her name just as his healing seals up the injury. </p><p>There's no tug on his pack bonds to signify an alliance, nothing from the wolf except an unimpressed hum, no sign he can pick out that his pack is now in treaty with Satomi's. Still, something inside of him calms a little. Stiles has treaties and alliances and unspoken agreements all over the country that Peter and his pack are riding the coattails of. Knowing that he's forged the first of his own -- even if it is with a pack that had previously been allied with the Hales -- settles him. </p><p>He passes over his copy of the alliance to Derek and takes a deep breath. "I do have a request," Peter says. Satomi gives him a look like she isn't surprised, but her eyebrows lift as Peter says, "If you want me to wait, I can. You've -- your pack experienced a great shock this morning."</p><p>"Ask," Satomi says. "I may not give you an answer right away, though, of course." </p><p>Peter nods, says, "Of course," because that's completely reasonable and, keeping in mind the stories Stiles has no doubt shared with her, anyone would hesitate to immediately agree to what Peter's going to ask. "My pack is -- young," he says, starting off slowly. Derek, next to him, straightens up a little and, when Satomi looks at him, nods in agreement with Peter. His scent grows a tinge of embarrassment, a little trickle of regret; Peter reaches over and puts his hand on Derek's thigh. The action serves to ease Derek's tension, noticeably enough that Satomi's lips quirk up, just for a moment, in silent amusement or approval. "The previous alphas of the territory did not prioritise the laws of our kind. Myself included," Peter's quick to add. "And one of my pack wasn't even aware of this world a week ago." </p><p>Satomi leans back in her chair, as if she knows exactly where this is going. It's likely that she does; Stiles may have mentioned the possibility to her at some point and even if he hadn't done so specifically, there's no hiding just how young the Hale pack really is. "New," she says, "and introduced roughly --" that would be Lydia, "-- or not trained at all. Yes. I know this, Peter." </p><p>"It was suggested to me," he says, delicately, though he has to pause for Satomi to snort, "that perhaps you might be willing to --" </p><p>"Let's not waste time," Satomi says, interrupting him, though she does so gently. "You have a pack to get back to, I have a pack to bond with after, as you pointed out, the great shock we had this morning. You have betas that need training. I pride myself on introducing people to our world and educating them to a high standard. I am allied but still quite neutral, and my territory borders your own. Yes, Peter. If you want me to teach your betas, I would be honoured." </p><p>Peter feels winded, a little, but the lines around Satomi's eyes and at the corners of her mouth have deepened since they've been sitting here, so he can understand her bluntness. "Thank you," he says. "Stiles will probably want to arrange things with you but we also need to get a consensus from our pack." He rises; Derek is quick to follow his example but when Satomi moves to do the same, Peter holds out one hand, says, "Your hospitality is appreciated, Satomi, but we can show ourselves out." </p><p>Satomi inclines her head in a nod of agreement and sinks back into her chair. She sits a little heavier than Peter would have expected; he opens his mouth to ask if she's -- not all right, because that would be a stupid question, but before he can decide on the wording, Satomi says, "Peter," quietly. </p><p>Peter gestures for Derek to go ahead of him and as Peter gets to the doorway, he looks back, says, "I'm sorry, for your sake, that it came to this." </p><p>"You and me both," Satomi admits. </p><p>Peter leaves, then. There's a clump of Satomi's packmates in the living area, two sitting on the stairs going up, and Megumi's standing by the front door, her eyes pinned on Derek until Peter comes into view. She bares her throat to Peter for a moment, hair swinging with the sharp movement as she straightens up again. </p><p>"Stiles knows we didn't know about what Kristian was doing, right?" she asks. "He knows that we would <i>never</i> --" </p><p>"He knows," Peter says, interrupting gently. Megumi relaxes, slightly, as she takes in the way Peter's heart remains steady. "As you said, he holds bonds of affection with people in this pack, including your alpha. He knows precisely who's to blame for what happened." </p><p>Megumi nods, says, quietly, "There will be one person he blames that doesn't deserve it." She doesn't name that person, but Peter knows who she means. Stiles will hate what he is as long as people like Kristian react the way they do and hurt Stiles' friends in the process. "Don't be a stranger, Alpha Hale," Megumi says, then, straightening her shoulders and stepping back. "We're allies now. Even if no one else does, <i>I</i> still want to meet the people who make up your pack." </p><p>Peter grins at her, scents Derek's surprise and pleasure, the hints of dry-leaf trepidation barely noticeable in the sea-salt taffy of his happiness. "Of course," Peter says. </p><p>Peter heads out of the house, then, down the steps to get firm ground under his feet. Derek follows him, silent as they get in the car, as they drive away. It's not until they're back on the main road, well out of the heart of Satomi's territory, that Derek looks at Peter and says, "The way she killed him. Is that -- were you expecting that?" </p><p>"It is the traditional way to excommunicate an emissary," Peter says, "and then to kill someone who broke pack vows." He glances over at Derek, sees Derek's brows furrowed. "Neither Alan nor his sister were <i>my</i> emissaries," he says, guessing at what Derek's thinking. "Satomi could have broken her bond with him and then left him to us, or given him a time limit to get out of the territory, or even turned him over to her pack to tear apart. But because she bonded him into the pack and because of the depth of his betrayal, she chose to kill him herself, and she did it in a way that packs have used for centuries. What we did -- what Malia and I did -- was deal with threats." </p><p>"Whereas Satomi was dealing with a traitor," Derek murmurs. Peter nods and Derek takes a long moment before saying, "She gave you her throat." </p><p>Peter hums. "She did." This time, he can't begin to guess at what's going through Derek's mind, so he asks, bluntly, "What about it?" </p><p>It takes Derek a while to answer, until they're almost back at the border of Beacon Hills. Peter waits, enjoys the feel of sunlight against his skin, the way that his bonds to Danny and Lydia hum with sleep-worn comfort and his bonds to Stiles and Malia echo with patient, but mischievous, affection. He tries to imagine what they're doing, what's causing the amusement he can feel ringing down Stiles' bond and what he's done to give Malia's bond that particular feeling of adoration, and can't decide if they're curled up together downstairs or chasing each other around the house. Something in between, most likely. </p><p>His bond to Derek oscillates between wonder and confusion on top of a layer of careful thoughtfulness. </p><p>When they're about five minutes away from the high school, Derek finally speaks. "Hypothetically speaking. If something happened and someone in our pack went behind our backs to hurt one of our allies, would you offer that ally <i>your</i> throat?" </p><p>Peter makes a thoughtful noise. "I suppose it would depend on who the ally was, what type of alliance we had, who did the betraying, what the effects would have been." He clicks his tongue against his teeth, admits, "Probably not. But I find that situation hard to imagine."</p><p>"Was Alpha Ito -- I don't know," Derek says. He sounds frustrated but not, Peter thinks, at himself, just at not having the words to express everything he's thinking. "I was shocked she did that. You were, too. I don't know why she did that, or if she did it expecting you to refuse, or if she meant it, or if what you did was right. It's just -- there's --." He stops, sighs, looks down at his hands. "I feel so <i>useless</i>. There are so many things I don't know."</p><p>"You may feel useless, but you are definitely <i>not</i> useless," Peter says, trying to sound sympathetic but he knows his words came out sharp. He can feel more than see Derek get set to argue but Peter shakes his head, says, "No, Derek. If you were useless, would I trust you to watch over our pack executioner while she's getting rid of a threat to our pack? Would I trust you with my mate's car? Or with the pack's awakening Morrigan? Would I keep you as my second? So you <i>feel</i> useless, fine. Feelings are tricky. They're hard to ignore. But they aren't always true -- and this one is most decidedly <i>not</i>. So feel what you want but <i>know</i> that you are not useless and any feelings to the contrary are most likely just a result of not having knowledge -- knowledge," he's quick to add, "that your mother should have imparted to you. Not knowing is not your fault. It's Talia's, and Laura's, and mine, and we're going to correct that as soon as possible." </p><p>Derek sets his jaw, smells defiant, but doesn't argue back. Peter has hope that somehow, eventually, his words -- and his trust -- will mean more to Derek than Derek's own insecurity.</p><p>--</p><p>They stop by the vault for a few minutes. Peter ignores the mess of boxes and bags that Derek and Lydia brought in last night and picks out half a dozen books for Danny from the Hale's collection. Derek prowls around, head tilted back and lips parted, inhaling the lingering scents. He pauses near the file cabinet, tilts his head to the side, and breathes in deep. </p><p>He turns to Peter, asks, "The nogitsune?" </p><p>"Mmm," Peter replies, trying to decide between two books, most of his attention focused on weighing the dry, Latin text that has more of the actual steps of emissary binding outlined against the easy-to-follow but more abstracted middle English tome. "Some of Stiles' scent mixed in; can you pick that out?" </p><p>Derek snorts, as if the question's stupid. "Ozone, like lightning," he says. "It's usually in combination with other smells; this is <i>pure</i> ozone. A lot like the community centre, actually." </p><p>Peter settles on the Latin; better to give Danny the process and fill it in with flowery language about feelings and ephemeral connections later on. He sets the middle English book back on the shelf, hefts the others that he's chosen, and joins Derek at the file cabinet. "When the Spark's given free reign, it usually comes across as ozone. Matches the sunlight." </p><p>"Danny doesn't smell like ozone," Derek says, before correcting himself slightly, adding, "though he hasn't done any magic in front of us, so perhaps he does. Is lightning a commonality or is that something only Stiles has?" </p><p>Casting his mind back to Béa, to Alex, to Medina, to the druids and pack mages Peter's met over the years, he thinks, tries to remember, eventually shakes his head. "Just Stiles," he says, "to the best of my knowledge. He shares parts of his scent with others -- kudzu with Béa, yew with Lydia, apple with Danny. In fact, I'm sure that every magic-user or fae has at least one part of their scent in common with Stiles and other Sparks. But the lightning -- it wouldn't surprise me if that was a reflection of the Spark itself." Derek makes an enquiring noise; Peter says, "Legend says that Sparks created the universe. That their magic -- or at least an echo of their magic -- lingers in the space between stars, that it forms the centre of every sun and star and planet, that they gave shape to life and purpose to death. Is it any wonder that they'd reflect the smell of light meeting electricity when no one else would?" </p><p>Derek exhales slow, stands there for long, quiet moments. "And he's <i>ours</i>," he murmurs, struck with the same awe and slight disagreement that Peter himself has felt, that they're honoured Stiles has tied himself to them but utterly confused, shocked, at why, and disapproving of the choice Stiles has made to limit himself even as they can't imagine him ever leaving. </p><p>Peter holds the stack of books with one hand, balanced on his hip, and uses his other hand to squeeze the back of Derek's neck. "A conundrum," he tells Derek. "Like everything to do with Stiles." </p><p>Derek snorts, but he relaxes at Peter's touch, even leaning into it a little, tilting his head forward to give Peter easier access. </p><p>They stand there a moment longer, inhaling the slow-fading scent of fox and Spark, and then leave to go home to their pack.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Chapter 29</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The townhouse smells of meat and bread when Peter opens the door; there's laughter ringing from the kitchen, even over the noise of the radio. Peter gets inside, moves out of the way so that Derek can come in as well, and Peter leans against the wall as he kicks his shoes off, eyes closed and lips curved up in a smile. His pack's here, content, even happy, and the scent of their joy and easy affection fills the air. Derek takes off his shoes as well and disappears into the kitchen, but Peter lays eyes on Danny, sprawled out on the couch and looking mostly asleep, one arm thrown over his eyes and his lips parted. Malia's in her fur on the floor next to him, and she opens one eye to look at Peter, huffs, then closes it again. </p><p>Peter doesn't even bother trying to hide his amusement or his smile. He sets the books for Danny on the coffee table, bends down to pet Malia. She nips at his ankle, light and teasing, and keeps her eyes closed, so Peter scritches her one last time between the ears and then stands back up. He goes around the couch, grazing his fingers across Danny's forehead as he passes. Danny hums lightly, murmurs something too sleep-ragged and quiet for Peter to make out precise words but their bond rings with contentment and tired appreciation so Peter lets it go. </p><p>He makes his way to the counter, where Lydia's sitting slouched in a chair, cradling a cup of coffee like she's only been awake for a few minutes. She's still in her borrowed pyjamas, has her hair pulled back in a loose, messy French braid. Seeing how comfortable she is with their pack, how she's not hiding behind perfect make-up and the armour of fashion, has Peter's wolf panting in glee. Lydia shifts from leaning against Derek, already sitting down on the other side of her, to lean against Peter once he's close enough. </p><p>"Stiles apparently stress-cooks," she says, tinges of sleep still riding her voice, making her words throaty in a way that sends Derek's scent spiralling for a split-second before he regains control. "Did you know that?"</p><p>"No," Peter admits. </p><p>Stiles, in sleep pants and one of Peter's shirts, holding a wooden spoon like a microphone up to his mouth, gives Peter a sheepish grin, then realises what he's doing and straightens up, tossing the spoon into the sink, where it lands with a splash and sends a few bubbles floating up into the air. He doesn't smell like stress and nothing in their bond feels like anxiety. Instead, his scent's all sticky toffee and melting peppermints, a blend of happiness and the mischief that Peter felt thrumming through their bond earlier. </p><p>Still, he can understand why Lydia would assume stress; the counter's <i>covered</i> in food. Peter runs his eyes over a ham reeking of either a sugar or honey glaze on a platter beside a turkey covered in herbs and sitting on a bed of stuffing. Next to those are two kinds of potatoes, four different kinds of vegetables, a pan of macaroni and cheese still bubbling, the breadcrumbs on top golden-brown, and a basket of yeast rolls. </p><p>"It's a good thing we're all shifters or magic," Derek says, taking Lydia's coffee when she hands it over and gulping down a large swallow before making room on the counter to set the mug down. </p><p>Peter nods in agreement. "Is there any food left in the house?" Peter asks, one eyebrow raised, as he lifts his gaze from the buffet spread to look at Stiles. "And how the hell did you get all of this done so fast? Derek and I have only been gone a couple hours." </p><p>"<i>Magic</i>," Stiles says. There's a slight growl from the living room, and Stiles rolls his eyes. "Malia helped," he adds. "Though in all fairness, it's her fault there's so much food. I asked her what she wanted and she nodded to every suggestion. And yes, we still have food in the house, though this should give us leftovers, and the ham and turkey will be good for sandwiches this week at school." Stiles pauses, glances around at everyone, and says, "<i>Should</i>. If there's enough left."  </p><p>Lydia makes a face, pushes a strand of hair that's fallen out of her braid back behind one ear. "I can't believe you're blaming this on Malia," she says, "like  you weren't the one who did all the work." Another growl from the other room, and this time it's Lydia who corrects herself. "Fine. <i>Most</i> of the work."  </p><p>Peter rests his hand on Lydia's shoulder for a moment before he makes his way around the island to Stiles, leans in, gives Stiles a kiss, murmurs, "Thank you for lunch." </p><p>Stiles grins. "The least I could do for our conquering heroes," he says, brushing his nose against Peter's before leaning back and tracing his fingers down Peter's cheek. "Everything go all right?" </p><p>"Brilliantly," Peter replies. </p><p>He's just about to ask if it's a good time to eat or if they have to wait for anything else when he hears two car doors slam out front. Ordinarily he wouldn't take much notice of the noise, as every townhouse in this row is occupied and cars come and go at every hour of the day and night, but the slams were right outside of <i>his</i> front door. Peter frowns, is just getting ready to go and look through the peephole to see if someone's lost or just stealing his second parking space, but Stiles stiffens in his hold. Peter looks at Stiles, takes in the flaring brilliant white of the Spark shining through Stiles' eyes, and lets out a sigh. Evidently the confrontation they'd both been expecting has come to their doorstep -- and just in time to ruin their lunch, too. </p><p>Peter gives Stiles a look, asks a silent question, and Stiles bares his teeth. "Both of them," Stiles murmurs. "I didn't think -- they really are comfortable with each other, aren't they." </p><p>"We'll deal with it quickly," Peter says, giving Stiles another kiss, this one fast, bruising, before he looks at Derek and tilts his head. Derek gets up as Peter's turning towards the front door and saying, "We have lunch waiting for us, after all." </p><p>Stiles turns off the radio before following Peter out of the kitchen. "It'll be fine," he tells Peter. "Temperature spells are some of the first things that made sense to me when I ignited. But quick would be nice. You're good?" At Peter's reassurance, Stiles peels away and goes to sit down. By the time he's sprawling out in the armchair, Peter's picked up the scent of their visitors. </p><p>Judging by the low growling Malia's giving voice to, she has as well. </p><p>Peter stands in the entryway, looks over his pack. Lydia's still in the kitchen, separated from the rest of them. That won't do; he tips his head to direct her into the living room. She rolls her eyes but moves, picking up her cup of coffee to take with her. Derek, standing close to Peter, curls his lip when the scents from outside hit him; he makes an expression of clear refusal when Peter gestures for Derek to stay back but eventually gives in, stalking over to Stiles and Lydia just as there's a knock on the door. </p><p>After one deep inhale and exhale, Peter opens the front door. "Sheriff," he says, "and McCall. What a surprise to find you both on my front doorstep, this delightful Sunday lunchtime." The sheriff makes a move to come in, push past Peter, but Peter stands squarely in his way. When the sheriff seems ready to shove Peter to get past him, Peter puts his hand on the sheriff's chest and holds him back. "Private property, sheriff," Peter drawls. "And, last I checked, not <i>your</i> property. Do you have a search warrant giving you permission to just barge in?" </p><p>The sheriff rolls his eyes, scent boiling over with disgust and anger, but he does take half a step back. "No," he says. "I'm here for my son." </p><p>Peter cocks his head, lets the vicious triumph he's feeling inside express itself through what is sure to be the most ridiculously smug smirk he's ever had in his life. "Then, if you're here as a private citizen, I'm allowed to tell you that I don't want you in our home and that I'd be perfectly within my rights to call the city's police to remove you from my doorstep." </p><p>"He's <i>my son</i>," the sheriff says, "and he's a minor. I'll come back with an order of custody if I have to, Hale, along with a warrant charging you with kidnapping, though I'm sure you'd prefer things get settled peaceably. It would be to your benefit, after all," he sneers, as if he thinks Peter only cares about himself, would only be swayed by a threat to his <i>own</i> comfort or reputation. "Now let me see my son." </p><p>"Oh, he's not a prisoner," Peter says, tone pleasant even though he's internally bristling at the demand, at the threat, at the way this man wants to take his mate away. "He just doesn't want to see you. Can't say I blame him, not after you kicked him out of his home. Is that why you want him back, sheriff? Chores around the house starting to pile up without him there to take care of you? You don't feel like doing laundry? You could always hire someone. I'm sure you'd be able to find a housekeeper with impeccable references," he suggests, hearing someone behind him stifle a laugh at the suggestion. "After all, we wouldn't want anything but the best for Beacon County's <i>beloved</i> sheriff." </p><p>The sheriff's cheeks are starting to flush with fury, his heart rate starting to steadily increase. It's like music to Peter's ears. "I'll come back with some deputies," the sheriff promises. "Until then, consider this a welfare check. Especially," he says, as if this is important, "as the Jeep isn't here. If you're holding him or keeping him -- I'd like to see Stiles." </p><p>"Oh, in that case," Peter says. The smile doesn't drop from his face, neither does the attitude from his words, and something about that response has the sheriff's eyes narrowing. Peter wonders if the man can feel the way Peter's body is filled with absolute loathing, the desire to tear the sheriff apart pulling the wolf close to the surface, snarling and growling. "Sweetheart?" he calls out, eyes fixed on the sheriff even as he tilts his head to call over his shoulder, watching as the sheriff and McCall both start and then begin reeking of mixed disgust and discomfort at the pet name. "Would you bring the folder from the courthouse over to me?" </p><p>That gets a response from the sheriff even if McCall doesn't recognise the implication. The man blinks, then blanches, then glares.</p><p>A couple moments later, Stiles appears at Peter's side, manila folder in his hands. Peter looks away from the sheriff long enough to see that Stiles has a shit-eating grin on his face, one that most likely matches the one Peter's still trying to swallow down, and that he's purposely let Peter's shirt fall off of one shoulder, baring the bite mark on his throat -- the one he's kept hidden -- to plain sight. </p><p>"You let him <i>bite</i> you?" McCall asks, gaping. "Stiles, you -- wait. You haven't healed. You didn't turn? Are you -- you're like Lydia?" </p><p>Stiles doesn't even bother to look at McCall, much less give him an answer. Instead, Stiles hands the folder over to Peter and leans in for a kiss. Peter's all too happy to rub their relationship in the faces of the two on his doorstep; he kisses back, nips a little when they finally break apart.</p><p>"Don't take too long," Stiles tells Peter, reaching out and pressing his palm against Peter's chest, over his heart. "Lunch is ready." </p><p>"Stiles, I --" the sheriff says, stopping when Stiles doesn't bother to acknowledge him, just turns around and goes away. </p><p>Peter opens the folder, takes out their copy of the signed and notarised marriage license, as well as a copy of the application itself. "As you can see," he tells the sheriff, handing over the forms, "Stiles is fine. And, coincidentally, none of your concern anymore." </p><p>The sheriff's face goes white when he sees the marriage license, heart skipping a beat. He flips through the copy of the application, pausing when he gets to the section giving parental approval. "I didn't sign this," he says, faintly. "I -- I didn't sign this. It's not -- it can't be legitimate." </p><p>"That's not your signature right there?" Peter asks, nodding at the line where the sheriff scrawled his name. "Or the stamps from the station? Looks like it was received, you signed, and then it was sent out to the courthouse for delivery," Peter says, watching as the sheriff's gaze flicks from the top of the page, where Parrish stamped and initialed the form, over his signature yet again, then down to the bottom of the page. The stamp there has the date, Deputy Cordova's initials, along with a note saying she was sending over the form to the courthouse, care of Linda Macfie in Records, on that date. "Of course, the judge was surprised you signed but he agreed that everything seemed to be in order." </p><p>The sheriff flips the page back to the front, muttering a curse when he sees the judge's name. He stares at the forms for a moment, sightlessly, then looks up at Peter. "What did you do to him." </p><p>McCall stares at the sheriff, says, "But it can't -- <i>married</i>? There's no way Stiles would do something like that without --." He stops, turns to look at Peter so fast that his neck cracks. His eyes flare red and he growls, says, "Tell us what you blackmailed him with. What did you threaten him with?" </p><p>There's a peculiar echo of alpha command to the words and Peter doesn't stop smiling as the order hits him and then runs right off him. The words don't even get close enough to the wolf to have it react to the attempt, much less latch on and force Peter into answering. McCall's eyes go wide as Peter ignores him. </p><p>"As you can see, sheriff, Stiles is fine," Peter says, taking the forms back, carefully sliding them out of the man's hands. He doesn't even have to tug at them; the sheriff's lost his grip, apparently finally having realised that he really has <i>lost</i> this time, and for good. Peter has the law on his side, has the courts, has <i>Stiles</i>. </p><p>Oh, they both know that the sheriff didn't <i>mean</i> to sign the form, but he has, and he won't be able to find anyone who would believe him if  he tried to deny his own signature. Even the ones who don't know or suspect something supernatural or manipulative would most likely just assume that the sheriff's changed his mind -- and it's far too late for that, now. </p><p>"He's staying here, with me -- with his <i>husband</i>," Peter goes on. "You would have to have Stiles' permission to take him away and I think we both know he'd never give that, not when he hasn't bothered to say one word to you the entire time you've been harassing me at our front door. Now. Is there anything else I can help you with? As my husband said, lunch is ready and waiting. Stiles put together quite the spread; I'd hate to have the food go cold or make him wait any longer than is strictly necessary." He gives the sheriff a cold-eyed smile and adds, "I do so love his cooking. The effort he goes to is a clear sign of his love, you know, and I do appreciate it."  </p><p>The sheriff's lips part, then press closed, then part again. The man's shoulders are slumped, his gaze flickering all over when Peter was speaking, now focused on the bridge of Peter's nose, not quite meeting the wolf glaring out of Peter's eyes but wanting to appear as if he is. The stench of disgust, of horror, of shame and guilt coming out of the man <i>burns</i>, it's so thick, but it has the wolf inside snarling out warning and triumph both at seeing their opponent so thoroughly beaten down -- and using the man's own weapons to do it. </p><p>"I'll find a way," the sheriff says. It's a weak threat, an even more insipid vow, one that Peter has no trouble laughing off with a dismissive wave. "I'll get him back, get him out from under your influence. You won't win this, Hale." </p><p>Peter shakes his head. He has no doubt that the sheriff will <i>try</i>, but he hopes for the man's sake that the sheriff doesn't try too hard or go too far. Failure in the public eye never goes over well at the polls and there's no telling how far the sheriff has to fall, placed too high on his own pedestal. </p><p>"I think you'll find I already have, sheriff," Peter says. "But good luck trying to marshal a defense. I look forward to seeing how you fight a war already lost with no allies and no hope." He pauses; when the sheriff doesn't make a move to leave, Peter tilts his head to the side, asks, "Was there something else?" Peter gives the sheriff a smile, says, "Only I'd hate to have to call the local police or sheriff's office to come and remove you. There are laws against loitering and police harassment." </p><p>The sheriff looks to McCall, who tells him, "It's okay, you should go. I'll be fine; I'll run home, it's not that far." </p><p>"Tell Stiles he can come home when he comes to his senses," the sheriff finally says to McCall. "When Hale shows his true colours, when he's done with whatever this is. I won't make him grovel; I just want him safe." </p><p>"Peter did something to him," McCall says, earnest enough that even Peter's impressed at how utterly and stupidly blind the boy is, to the truth of the situation and his wolf, both. If he was in any kind of communion with his wolf, he'd be able to tell that Stiles isn't just married to Peter, he's <i>mated</i>, that their scents are entwined with love and affection and a type of violent, vicious care that won't see them split. "Blackmail or threats or some kind of spell -- whatever it is, we'll figure it out and then I'll talk to Deaton. He'll know how to stop it. This isn't Stiles, Stiles wouldn't do this voluntarily, so there's something, we'll deal with it, and then he'll be fine. I <i>promise</i>." </p><p>Even his years of practice at being the expressionless left hand isn't enough to keep Peter from quirking up one corner of his mouth. He's just so terribly <i>amused</i> by the idiocy of this little pup. </p><p>The sheriff takes in Peter's smile, gives McCall a nod, and steps back a few paces before turning his back to Peter. Without another word, the sheriff gets in his cruiser and reverses out of the parking space, drives away. He -- he actually <i>leaves</i>. Peter almost can't believe it. Even if McCall is an alpha werewolf, no adult, especially one with both knowledge of their world and law enforcement training, should be willing to leave a teenager alone with an adult who's already shown resistance to the alpha command and has a history of eliminating threats to his pack. </p><p>Sometimes Peter wonders at how stupid people can be. Granted, he's made a life's work of honing his cunning and intelligence, and his pack is made up of people who have more than an average amount of sense, but <i>still</i>. </p><p>With the sheriff gone, Peter moves to one side and gives McCall a smile that wouldn't melt butter. "Alpha McCall," he says. "Come in, won't you?" </p><p>To his credit, McCall does pause for a moment. He lives up to Peter's expectations, though, when he ignores whatever warning his instincts are screaming or his wolf is howling at him, and says, "Thanks," before entering the townhouse. </p><p>Peter rolls his eyes, waits for McCall to enter before he closes the door. After a moment's consideration, and for good measure, Peter locks the door. </p><p>--</p><p>McCall's pulse kicks a moment too early and Peter turns around to see what has McCall's heart skipping beats. </p><p>Stiles is back in the armchair, sprawled out and with Malia sitting between his legs, the coyote now back in human form and with a blanket wrapped tight around her. Lydia's sitting cross-legged on the wide armrest, one hand buried in Stiles' hair, the other circled around her cup of coffee, which rests lightly on one knee. Derek's on the other side of the chair, leaning against the back of it, arms folded over his chest and glaring in McCall's general direction. Danny, still lying on the couch, finally has his eyes open; he's yawning, though, the smell of sleep lingering around the edges of his scent. </p><p>They look comfortable, all of them, and unified, like <i>pack</i>, like this is where they belong and they know it, no need for guilt or excuses or any sort of justification in the face of McCall's horrified censure. </p><p>"What -- <i>Lydia</i>," McCall says. "He <i>possessed</i> you. He put you in the hospital and then he nearly drove you insane. How can you even -- Danny, I don't understand what you're -- and Derek, you <i>killed</i> him, you -- <i>why</i>?" </p><p>Derek says nothing, just lifts his chin. Lydia, though, gives McCall one of her oh-so-cutting looks, full of the kind of attitude that made her queen of the high school and will serve her well in the fae courts, and simply asks, "Why not? Stiles is here; I go where he goes. Or do you think you're the better choice?" </p><p>McCall stares, finally says, "<i>Yes</i>! You should've told me something was wrong with Stiles, not humour him, not after --," and he stops abruptly. He pauses, though he probably doesn't catch the maelstrom of scents coming out from Stiles and Lydia -- curls of ice and lightning-struck, blackened yew melding in the air -- that have Peter's wolf sitting up and taking notice. When the Spark and the fae marry their anger and outrage like that, even the wolf knows to pay attention. McCall, though, shakes his head as if clearing his thoughts, probably of Allison, probably all self-pitying and self-contained, nothing observant or caring, and says, "And of <i>course</i> I'm the better choice! How could you even question that?" </p><p>McCall's  eyes travel from Lydia to Danny, then to Derek, over Stiles and to Malia. Something in his scent shifts, something that makes Peter, leaning against the wall and watching McCall, wrinkle his nose. He'd never be able to describe it, never find anything close to the scent pouring out of McCall, some tight combination of lust, worry, want, guilt. </p><p>"Eyes off my daughter," Peter snaps. </p><p>Malia lifts her chin, shakes her head a little so the hair close to her face flies back. Stiles leans forward, braids Malia's hair with quick, precise movements, taking a spare hair tie from Lydia when he's done. Once Stiles ties off the braid, Malia tilts her head, baring her throat. Peter has trouble holding back a laugh as Stiles sets his hand to her throat and she relaxes into the possessive touch. </p><p>The small action, seemingly so insignificant, goes over McCall's head. He doesn't even wait for Stiles to lean back, for Malia to settle, before he ignores the questions he <i>should</i> be asking to say, "Dude. Stiles. I thought things between you and your dad were getting better. We, y'know, made sure you two had time together since he's been worried about you being sick. I mean, we all have, but your dad --. Anyway. What did you do that has you <i>here</i>? <i>All</i> of you?" He looks at Lydia, at Danny, asks, "Did Stiles pull you into this? Is Peter doing something to him -- or threatening Malia? Are you <i>all</i> in trouble?"</p><p>Stiles rolls his eyes, says, with a certain lack of care, "Dad hasn't been worried about me. He's been worried about more hospital bills, worried about who's gonna take care of the house, worried about me failing out of school or getting in trouble and either embarrassing him or doing something to hurt his reelection campaign." There's a slight pause, a dangerous amount of ozone flinging outwards from Stiles' body, and his tone, when he speaks again, is low and borders on threatening. "You would know, after all. How long have you two been having secret meetings behind my back?" </p><p>McCall looks confused, says, "We both thought that leaving you out of the trouble would help. You're still recovering. And it's --." </p><p>He stops suddenly, almost mid-breath, and Stiles waits a beat to see if McCall's going to pick his thought back up before Stiles just says it for him. "It's difficult having me around. Because of what happened to Allison." </p><p>McCall swallows. It's almost audible, has Peter's wolf snarling, snapping its fangs. "We all thought you needed the space." </p><p>"I didn't," Lydia snaps. "You didn't ask me. Maybe because you knew what I would say to such a stupid idea." </p><p>"Didn't ask me, either," Malia says, lifting her chin in defiance. "When you said 'we,' who did you mean?" </p><p>McCall shifts on his feet. "Well, me and the sheriff. Because <i>we're</i> Stiles' family. We can make decisions like that, when it's for his own good. That's what family is." </p><p>"Family's not pack," Malia says. "Family's less than pack. You should have asked his pack if you couldn't ask him himself." </p><p>"Malia, there isn't --," McCall says, before he shakes his head and switches direction. Peter can't blame him; there's no way to argue about the necessity of putting pack before family when McCall doesn't acknowledge that pack even exists. "What are you two gonna do now, huh? Stiles, your dad likes Malia, and what kind of future is there for you when you're legally married to her dad? Marriage is important, and -- what did <i>Peter Hale</i> promise you to get you to go along with this? What's he blackmailing you with? Is it something about Malia? Or Mr. Tate?" He gives Stiles a disappointed look, says, "You could've come to me. I would've helped." </p><p>Peter stares and Derek rolls his eyes, Malia huffs, and it's Danny, sitting up, who buries his face in his hands and says, words slightly muffled but still audible, "You have <i>got</i> to be kidding me." </p><p>Before McCall can open his mouth again, Malia says, "Stiles and I aren't together. Stiles is mated to Peter. How can you not smell that? They reek of each other." </p><p>"But --," McCall says, gesturing at Malia and Stiles, the way that Malia's leaning into his legs and his touch. </p><p>"They're my alphas, Scott," Malia says. "Stiles is my alpha and anchor, and Peter is his mate." She waits for a response to that, doesn't get one, and huffs again. She turns her head enough to brush her chin over Stiles' fingers, then gets up, keeping the blanket wrapped around her. "This is ridiculous. I'm gonna go get dressed." </p><p>Malia stalks off, towards the stairs, and McCall takes one step forward as if he's going to chase her down. Derek lets out a low snarl, flashes his eyes, and McCall pauses, turns wide eyes on Derek as if he's just been betrayed. "Derek, man, you have to explain this to me, okay? I -- I really don't understand what's going on here." He glances at Peter, gives Danny a perplexed look, and then turns his gaze back to Derek. "I thought we were <i>brothers</i>." </p><p>Peter's too stunned at the utter <i>gall</i> to respond. Derek looks like McCall just punched him; Danny smells of confusion. It's Stiles who stands up, who waves off Lydia murmuring his name and takes a couple steps forward to get in McCall's line of sight, blocking his view of Derek. </p><p>"You <i>asshole</i>," Stiles says. His scent's exploded, gone full ozone and lightning, the salt and driving wind of his fury almost blown back by a wave of Spark destruction that Peter feels through the triple bond and the claim. Peter flinches, half-expects the room to be dissolved in light and heat and the brilliant radiance of a thousand burning suns, and Derek gets kicked out of his shift, almost physically pushed back enough that he has to uncross his arms to help give him the balance needed to stay on two feet. "Brother when <i>you</i> want," Stiles goes on, voice low, tone deadly in its inquisitorial derision. "Brother when it suits <i>you</i>. When Derek was an alpha, where was your brotherhood then?" Stiles bares his teeth, takes one step closer to McCall, who looks and smells too shocked to move. "When Derek wanted your help with a feral alpha, when he warned of you of threats to the pack, when he wanted your help defending the territory, where was your brotherhood then? Where was it when <i>you</i> became alpha, huh?" </p><p>"Stiles, I --" McCall says. </p><p>Stiles cuts him off, though, and Peter's not sure if it's the sight of Stiles taking one more step forward or if the Spark's literally cut the voice from McCall. "Pack means nothing to you. Territory means nothing to you. Responsibility means nothing to you. Even family, which you claim you care about above everything else, means nothing to you. And you call yourself <i>alpha</i>." He snorts, such a dismissive, scoffing noise, that Peter doesn't know how McCall didn't feel that like a punch right to the gut. "You never wanted to be a wolf. Never wanted a pack, never wanted this world." He pauses, then, asks, "If there was a way to remove the wolf from you, would you want that? Would you be human again?" </p><p>McCall opens his mouth. He looks like he's about to say yes without so much as a moment's thought, but he stops. Peter wishes he knew if it was doubt or responsibility or some kind of good sense that's finally made it through the boy's thick skull that has McCall saying, haltingly, "I have -- there are other wolves. Shifters. They need an alpha." </p><p>"They have Ethan," Danny says. </p><p>The immediate scent of anger and distrust from Derek gets tightened down quickly, but Peter still flicks his eyes to his nephew. He pours reassurance through their bond, enough that Derek looks at him. Peter shakes his head, an infinitesimally small motion but enough to see. Derek relaxes, even as McCall's heart, which had skipped a couple beats at Danny's words, settles back into rhythm. Peter's not sure if McCall startled like an anxious pup because Danny spoke up, because of the reminder of Ethan, or because so much of his attention was centred on Stiles. </p><p>If it was the latter, Peter can't blame McCall for being startled at the interruption. Stiles' anger is so close to the surface that it's almost a tangible thing, vibrating the air at a level that Peter's wolf can feel, and so beautiful in his absolute focus. Peter can barely keep from throwing himself at Stiles' feet the way he did behind an old, beat-up Texaco station in Louisiana, and the full focus of Stiles' interrogation isn't even directed at him. He knows what Stiles is, though, underneath the exquisite human shell of skin and bone, knows what kind of awesome, immense power the Spark holds. </p><p>McCall doesn't. McCall has <i>no clue</i> who he's standing up against and why that's the most monumentally stupid thing he's done in a long line of monumentally stupid things. In fact, he does something even <i>more</i> stupid a moment later and takes his eyes off of Stiles. Instead of proving he has any kind of instinct for self-preservation, McCall looks away from Stiles and at Danny. Even Derek knows how ridiculous that is, badly hiding his shock. </p><p>The pup flashes his eyes at Danny, and if Danny had been bitten, he no doubt would've reacted to that show of rank even if he's not part of McCall's pack. He <i>hasn't</i> been bitten, though, and he's not in enough control of his magic to push it into his eyes, turn them a green that would match his aura. "Not a wolf," Danny says. "Not any kind of shifter and with no real desire to become one. But we're not talking about me, and we're not talking about Ethan, Scott. Stiles asked if you'd go back to being human. Without worrying about the others, would you? Would you give up the wolf?" </p><p>"I don't -- I mean, if there was a way," McCall says. "Maybe." </p><p>"If you won't give up your wolf," Danny asks, sitting up a little, leaning forward, eyes pinned on McCall, "would you be willing to give up your alpha spark? Derek did. You could." </p><p>There's no history of an alpha spark from a true alpha transferring; most of the stories say that a true alpha's spark dies at the moment the wolf does. Just because there aren't legends, though, doesn't mean it's not possible. And giving it up is different from transferring, too -- the difference between an early inheritance and an abdication, perhaps. There aren't, to Peter's recollection, any stories or legends about that.</p><p>McCall shakes his head, though, and asks, "Who would I give it to? Ethan's already got one, Derek and Peter sucked at being alphas, and Malia's too feral. I'm not gonna bite anyone just to give up the spark, either. No, I can't -- I can't give up the spark." </p><p>"Then the wolf," Lydia says. McCall smells like -- longing. "You said maybe. But do you remember what you were like as a human?" she goes on, voice cold, scent filled with hidden ice, black and treacherous. "Weak. Sick. Easily dismissed. The only one who stuck by you was Stiles and he's learned better now. You'd be alone, bottom of the heap, one asthma attack away from death." She makes a dismissive noise, says, almost as an aside, "Peter biting you was the best thing that could've happened, even if it wasn't consensual. You got the girl, got the abilities. Lacrosse co-captain. Popular. Stuck-up and self-righteous." </p><p>"I'm not -- I didn't want it," McCall says, quiet. "I never wanted it. Everything that's happened -- the nemeton, Alli -- Allison, all the death, the lying. I never wanted any of that." </p><p>Peter speaks up, then, asks, "You think we did?" </p><p>McCall turns to Peter, glaring. He looks more like an angry toddler than a hostile alpha werewolf; it would be enough to make Peter laugh if it wasn't so fucking pathetic. "It's all <i>your</i> fault," he spits out. "Everything. All of it. You're the one who started it. If it wasn't for you, we'd all be <i>normal</i>." </p><p>"Some of us," Danny says, "would never have been normal." McCall looks at him, makes a face as if to say that Danny's talking nonsense, and Danny raises one eyebrow. "My family has magic. So does Stiles'. Lydia's got her own gifts. The only one who wouldn't be in this world without Peter's intervention is <i>you</i>. So don't go talking about things you don't know. It makes you look like an idiot." </p><p>McCall's attention switches to Stiles, then. He's shocked, that much is clear from his scent and the increased pace of his heartbeat. It seems the news of Danny's magic isn't worth much of McCall's notice, and he already knew that Lydia was <i>something</i>, so it's Stiles he looks at with shock and no small amount of horror. Peter doesn't understand why, because McCall knew about Stiles' tricks with the mountain ash, and he <i>must</i> have known that no mere human would be able to survive a nogitsune's possession. </p><p>Apparently that's giving McCall too much credit. </p><p>"Magic?" McCall says to Stiles. "Does Deaton know?" </p><p>"Oh, yes," Peter says, vicious pleasure ringing in his tone. "He's fully aware of what Stiles is." </p><p>Malia comes down the steps, then, wearing shorts and one of Stiles' shirts. She walks a wide circle around the living room, ends up leaning against the wall behind McCall, clearly making no effort to hide that she's blocking the exit. McCall doesn't even seem to notice, still staring at Stiles with betrayal written all over his face. </p><p>"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks Stiles. </p><p>"Because I don't trust you," Stiles says, the cold, blatant honesty of the Spark speaking. "Because you've never been my friend. Because you're not worth it."</p><p>There's a moment where no one moves, no one speaks, no one really <i>breathes</i>. Then McCall breaks the stillness. He inhales, sharply, and steps back, unsteady on his feet. His eyes flicker red to brown, half a dozen times, before they stay the crimson colour of the wolf. </p><p>"Stiles," he breathes. "That's not -- you don't mean that. You're -- Peter's done something to you, to all of you, that's why you're -- why you're talking like that, why you're here. You would never -- this isn't <i>you</i>, Stiles. Trust me, I know you, I'm your <i>brother</i>, we're <i>family</i>, and this isn't you. I can -- I can save you, we can save them all, please, just -- <i>please</i>. Come with me. We'll figure this out, I promise, Stiles. <i>Please</i>." </p><p>McCall takes a deep breath and holds out one hand. </p><p>For a second, time feels suspended. Then -- the Spark bursts into luminescent being. </p><p>Flames of light come pouring out of Stiles, form those great big mantling wings behind him, swim and burn into a coronet that hovers above his head, the glow around him radiant and filled with heat as small firefly-like sparkles glisten and gleam in and out of sight. </p><p>"Oh my god, Stiles," McCall says. "What the actual <i>fuck</i>." </p><p>"If I told you that there was nothing to figure out," Stiles says. "If I said that Peter was my choice, that the Hale pack was my choice, that I know what I'm doing and I want it. If I said that this was <i>me</i>. Would you accept that?" </p><p>McCall pulls his outstretched hand back, then lets it fall, slowly, down to his side. "I -- no," he says, shaking his head. "I wouldn't accept it because I can't believe it. I <i>can't</i>." </p><p>Lydia sighs and Danny drops his head, shakes it. </p><p>"I'm hungry," Malia says, into the silence. "And bored." She pushes herself off from where she's been leaning against the wall, brushes past McCall to stand next to Stiles, completely dismissive of the light and heat of the Spark, unyielding in her belief that she's safe with Stiles, right beside him. She's right, too; Stiles lifts his hand, strokes the back of Malia's neck with his fingertips, and the Spark-fire shifts to accommodate her. "I'll do it if you want," she tells him. "If you -- I'll do it." </p><p>"I thought I'd take the wolf away from you," Stiles tells McCall, letting his hand slide down Malia's back and curl to rest on her hip, pulling her close. Her body leans into Stiles', throaty growl of satisfaction starting up as she tilts her head to pin blue eyes on McCall, her cheek pressed to Stiles' shoulder. "I thought I'd get you out of the territory by sending your mother away and forcing you to go along with her. I thought I'd <i>fix</i> you and rip out the alpha spark you never learned to appreciate. I had so many options, Scott, to leave you alive. But that was really the one option I never had." </p><p>This time it's Peter's heart which skips a beat. He and Stiles talked about it, he knows that Stiles has already considered every possible outcome of killing McCall, and he thought -- he <i>honestly</i> thought -- that Stiles would leave McCall alive. It would be easier, in the long run, and let them slide under the radar for a little bit longer in Beacon Hills. Peter had been prepared to wrestle his wolf back from the need to feel McCall's blood in his mouth, from the insatiable desire to rip out the life from the boy and correct a mistake he made when he was feral and half-dead. </p><p>The way Stiles is talking, now, though -- </p><p>"People have heard about you, you know," Stiles goes on. "The true alpha in the Hales' territory, the one who rose thanks to the Alpha pack and then healed a creature like Deucalion and let him run free, who would've left a darach alive -- wounded, but alive and free to heal and unleash her insanity on another pack, who never punished a kitsune for breaking her contract with another of her own kind, who doesn't engage in rite and doesn't know ritual, who would leave his pack unbound and unprotected, who scoffs at alliances and sneers at treaties." </p><p>"That's -- it was the right thing to do," McCall says, lifting his chin. "Deucalion promised he wouldn't hurt anyone and everyone deserves a second chance, even someone like him. And Mrs. Yukimura didn't do anything wrong! The nogitsune wasn't her fault." </p><p>The flames dance to the ceiling, curl around Malia and start to thrum. Stiles takes his eyes off of McCall long enough to look at Peter. There's no sorrow in those Spark-white eyes, no hesitation, nothing but <i>judgment</i>. </p><p>Stiles once told Peter he didn't want to command. He said that free will is more important, that mistakes are important, that choice is important. Apparently McCall's had enough time and made enough mistakes. Peter wants to <i>howl</i> with how proud he is -- at the same time he yearns to beg Stiles' forgiveness for ever thinking that judgment was a weaker choice, a less involved choice. He understands now, or he's at least starting to grasp an understanding of why Stiles would choose Beacon Hills instead of the country, why he would choose influence and incremental change over rule and order, why he would sentence McCall to death rather than change the alpha to an omega or the wolf to a man. </p><p>Even in this, a choice -- and McCall chose pride over acceptance. Peter would pity him if he wasn't so thrilled at the choice that Stiles has made, the one that has Stiles giving Peter a shallow nod as he says, "Alpha Hale." </p><p>McCall spins to look at Peter, gasps in shock or horror -- probably both -- at seeing Peter with alpha-red eyes. He opens his mouth but before McCall can say anything, Stiles speaks, voice ringing with power and divine conviction, the righteous inviolability of cleansing Spark-flame flickering outwards and eating up the air around McCall as it creeps slowly toward the boy. </p><p>"As is my right as Spark," Stiles says, "I have passed sentence and now ask you, as alpha of this territory: do you choose fire or claw?"</p><p>Peter's wolf comes surging to the forefront and when he smiles, he does so with fangs. Choices. Always free will, with Stiles. Always choice -- and oh, does Peter love making <i>this</i> choice. </p><p>"Claw," Peter says, and leaps.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Chapter 30</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>Epilogue</i>
</p>
<p>Peter snarls, digs his fangs into Stiles' shoulder to hold him <i>still</i>. Stiles growls right back at him, rakes nails down Peter's back and arches his hips to draw Peter deeper inside of him. </p>
<p>"Harder, wolf," Stiles says, teeth bared. There are splotches of blood on his face, a smear crossing his lips and staining them a darker red than normal, one fingerprint-press on the bridge of his cheekbone, dried and flaking off when Stiles closes his eyes and grimaces at the way Peter thrusts into him. The Spark, let as free as Stiles dares, surrounds them both, a blinding warm brilliance that protects them as they crash into one another, again and again. </p>
<p>The wolf howls and Peter gives voice to it, claws scrabbling on the dirt as his hips rock. There's violence in every moment, violence and thoughtless, maddening frenzy -- but triumph as well, and pride, and love. </p>
<p>Stiles comes with a low, guttural moan, the tightly-coiled spring of his muscles going slack in an instant. He pants for breath even as Peter's still searching for the high of orgasm, urges Peter on with a whimpering whine that speaks directly to the wolf. </p>
<p>"Mine," Peter tells Stiles, tells and begs and commands, all at the same time. "<i>My</i> mate."</p>
<p>"Yours," Stiles says. His lips curve up in a breathtaking grin, showing teeth that gleam with an incarnadine glow, as if blood has sunken into enamel and gum and permanently altered the colour. The Spark flares even brighter, grows even hotter, until Peter's bathed in a warm summer sunshower, the air around them glittering with the radiance of newborn stars. "Yours, Peter," he breathes out, lifting one hand and tracing the curves and points of Peter's fangs before sliding a path across Peter's forehead, down one cheek, around his neck. Stiles grips lightly, the delicate press of his fingertips sending shivers down Peter's spine, and then closes his eyes and tilts his head back, showing off the vulnerable tenderness of his throat. </p>
<p>Peter's gaze fixates on Stiles' eyelashes, the shadow they cast in the light of the Spark, and he gives voice to a muttered curse as he chases his own pleasure. </p>
<p>When he comes, it's almost a relief. </p>
<p>Peter waits until he can feel his legs again, then rolls them so that his back is pressed into the dirt and Stiles is sprawled out on his chest. Stiles grins, hums and presses his face in the curve of Peter's neck, his heart rate finally starting to settle again. Peter reaches up, brushes a couple of leaves and some dirt out of Stiles' hair, taps his fingers down Stiles' neck and the curve of his spine to rest on the small of Stiles' back.</p>
<p>It's five or so minutes later when Stiles lets out a sigh and tilts his head a little. "Is it bad that I don't want to go back?" Stiles whispers, just loud enough for Peter to hear. "I mean, I do, but --. This has been nice." </p>
<p>'This' has been a six-day honeymoon in the most expensive hotel in Sonoma, all the wine-tasting and five-star meals and pampering they can handle, plus a little revenge murder just completed an hour ago. Calling it 'nice' is perhaps a bit of an understatement, but Peter can't bring himself to disagree with Stiles. Even beyond watching Gerard Argent die choking on his own blood, the small holiday has been solely needed. </p>
<p>Stiles has relaxed into something close, Peter thinks, to his true self, as much a Spark as he can get away with. He's muted the glow around humans, kept his eyes the gorgeous amber-brown of his human guise, but in the way he's talked, the way he's acted, even the way he's laughed and scratched and fought in bed, he's been consistently more awesome, terrifying Spark than human teenager. </p>
<p>The time away's been good for Peter, too. He's almost worked the mating frenzy out of his system -- almost. Some part of him, he's sure, will always want the darker things in sex -- dominance, blood, teeth -- but last night they fucked slowly, almost gently, Stiles riding him and a smile on his face, both of them chuckling and teasing in turns, soft exhalations of surpise as they came, so caught up in each other that Peter had practically forgotten they were even having sex. </p>
<p>"It's not bad," Peter tells him, pulling Stiles closer. Sometimes Peter hates the distance between them. Sometimes he wishes he could carve open his own chest and make a home for Stiles inside his rib cage, keep Stiles cradled in the marrow of each and every bone, feel the weight and heat of the Spark pulsate inside of him instead of his own heart. "It's completely understandable. I would --" </p>
<p>Stiles cuts him off, gracing Peter with a mischievous smile. "You can't wait to go back, don't even try." The smile dips, just a little, as Stiles says, "Your territory, the pack, <i>home</i>. It's okay to miss it, Peter. I do. I just --."</p>
<p>Peter waits until he's sure that Stiles isn't going to continue, then rubs his nose against his mate's cheek. "We'll just have to take more vacations," he says. "Weekend trips, when we can manage. Longer ones when we want." </p>
<p>"I like the way the air smells, here," Stiles says. "Not, y'know, <i>here</i>, necessarily, but -- Napa. Sonoma. The earth, the vineyards, even the rain -- I don't know. It's different from home. Different from everywhere else I've gone. Old, but not full. Rich, maybe, without being overpowering. Too full of scent to be crisp like New Hampshire or Denver but not overwhelming, not like the Gulf." </p>
<p>Peter hums; he knows exactly what Stiles means and he happens to agree. He closes his eyes, feels as Stiles closes his; the motion of Stiles' eyelashes brushing against Peter's skin sends ripples of goosebumps across Peter's arms and down his spine. "I could buy a house here," he says, murmuring just loud enough, he hopes, for Stiles to hear. "Something small, with a good view. A pack vacation cottage."</p>
<p>Stiles huffs out a chuckle, says, "So this is what it's like to have a sugar daddy," in a low, quiet tone of voice, almost half-asleep already. "Sugar alpha. Providing for his pack." He stops there, yawns, and wriggles up closer to Peter, adjusts the angle of one leg, buries his face in the curve of Peter's throat. "Mmkay," he agrees, and his breath slowly evens out, the Spark glowing moon-soft around them. </p>
<p>They sleep.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Peter wakes up to the sound of their phones ringing -- both of them. </p>
<p>They've been checking in with the pack twice a day -- Peter with Derek, Stiles with Malia. It's still too early in their pack's formation for Peter to feel entirely comfortable leaving the pack for this long, even if they're only a few hours' drive away from Beacon Hills; the phone calls help, and so does the feeling of firmly-anchored bonds. </p>
<p>Peter checks the pack bonds every night before he falls asleep and every morning as soon as he wakes up, lying in bed with Stiles either clinging onto him with octopus-like strength or starfished over the bed, keeping physical contact with Peter almost by accident with how stretched-out he gets. There's a deep satisfaction in the wolf, when they parse the connections to their betas: Derek, generally indulgent; Malia, almost always more wild than any of the others, as close to her coyote as she is; Lydia, cold on the other end of their taut connection thanks to her fae magic growing stronger each and every day; Danny, the feeling of deep forests and dark nights, with a contentment that overwhelms the slight hints of frustration Peter sometimes feels from him. </p>
<p>And then there's Stiles: the scent of him, the feel of him, the taste of him on Peter's tongue, the tight possessiveness of their triple bond, a claim so thorough that when Peter sinks into their bond now, he has trouble finding where he ends and Stiles begins. Perhaps that's what it means, truly, to belong to a Spark, to be part of everything a Spark is, down at its core. </p>
<p>The pack bonds, right now, though, as Peter checks them, are jangling with nerves -- Derek's and Lydia's more than the other two. </p>
<p>Peter reaches for his phone as Stiles rolls off of him with a muttered curse to scrabble through his clothes for his own. Peter sees Derek's name on the Caller ID and frowns; Peter's been the one to initiate contact the entire time he and Stiles have been gone, so to see that Derek's calling <i>him</i> has his heart skipping one beat as he presses the icon to answer the call. </p>
<p>Before Peter can say hello, Derek asks, "<i>How long will it take you two to get back here</i>?" </p>
<p>Peter meets Stiles' eyes, hears Malia on the other end of Stiles' call, saying, "-- <i>and I don't think it's a good idea.</i>" </p>
<p>At Peter's raised eyebrow, Stiles rolls his eyes, moves the phone away from his mouth. "Fae," Stiles says. "An emissary from the Winterlands." </p>
<p>"You didn't know they were coming?" Peter asks. Derek and Malia are quiet, listening; Peter can hear them both breathing, feels tension circling through their bonds. </p>
<p>"No," Stiles says. "There was no warning, but Malia said they stopped at the edge of the wards and knocked, which -- that's the right thing to do for an unexpected visit to a non-fae power. They're observing all the traditional niceties." He pauses, bites at his bottom lip for a moment, then brings the phone back up to his mouth, asking Malia, "Did they have a scroll?" </p>
<p>Malia huffs. "<i>Two of them</i>," she says, just loud enough for Peter to hear, as close as he and Stiles are. "<i>One for you and one for Lydia. We didn't take them and the fae didn't offer.</i>" </p>
<p>"<i>They did offer a sign of good will, though</i>," Derek says. "<i>A bowl made of ice, holding twelve gemstones</i>." </p>
<p>Peter meets Stiles' eyes, feels the flash-memory of Winterlands cold knock through his bones, hears the echo of Mab's laugh and of fae souls crushed to shards. Stiles winces, lets out a deep breath, as it sounds like Derek switches them to speakerphone. </p>
<p>There's a slight rustle, then Lydia says, "<i>I recognised a few of them. Opal, garnet, diamond, lapis. Something that could have been obsidian or some kind of black quartz. We didn't take the bowl, either.</i>"</p>
<p>"Probably for the best," Stiles says. He meets Peter's gaze, question written in his eyes and the way his head tilts to the side; Peter nods. "We'll pack up and come back. Feel free to leave the fae outside of the wards. If you decide to invite them in, offer something hot to drink and tell them --"</p>
<p>"<i>That they owe us nothing for the hospitality because it is their due and our responsibility</i>," Derek says, cutting Stiles off. </p>
<p>Stiles grins wide, says, "I knew giving you those books was a good idea." He gets up, then, and walks a little bit away, murmuring to Malia. </p>
<p>Peter begins to stand as well, intent on gathering their clothes, and he tells Derek, "It'll take us twenty minutes to get back to the hotel, probably another twenty to pack up and check out. Barring any accidents on the road, we should be back to the edge of the wards within three hours. I'll have Stiles text you when we hit Redding. Will that be all right?" </p>
<p>"<i>The fae's made a chair out of ice</i>," Derek says. "<i>They're in no hurry and Malia says she didn't have anything better to do today than sit in the preserve and keep watch. Lydia and I are going to get some food for Mal and Danny said he'll finish up what he's working on and then meet us at the wardline. Drive safe,</i>" and then he hangs up. </p>
<p>Peter gets dressed, eavesdropping as Stiles and Malia finish their conversation. It's not much more than Stiles making sure Malia's all right with playing guard, telling her a few details of etiquette for dealing with fae messengers, and Malia doing the verbal equivalent of rolling her eyes. She's the one who ends the conversation, telling Stiles that he's wasting time and to stop talking to her so he can get back sooner, and she hangs up while Stiles is mid-sentence. Stiles' scent practically squawks with fond outrage; he turns around when Peter starts laughing, glaring at Peter. </p>
<p>The glare does less than nothing, especially because it's paired with Stiles' complete inability to keep a smile from crossing his lips. </p>
<p>"Oh, <i>fine</i>," Stiles says, and comes back over to Peter, trading his phone for his clothes. "Laugh it up, Peter, <i>god</i>. It's so obvious that the two of you are related." </p>
<p>He keeps muttering the entire time he's dressing, and is still going strong as they hike out of the park and back to their car, even for half the drive back to the hotel. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>They pack up quickly and check out reluctantly, and just over half an hour later, Peter's turning the car out of the hotel's drive and onto the road to head back north.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>The days since Scott's death have passed by with a severe lack of repercussions. Peter isn't surprised, per se, but it's been a clear showing of just how much influence and good will Stiles can summon up on their behalf.  </p>
<p>The sheriff's had time to sit and stew in his own incompetence, both at getting Stiles out of Peter's clutches and at holding them responsible for Scott's disappearance. Judge Denton called Stiles -- not twenty-four hours after they'd finished burying Scott's body in the woods -- to say that the sheriff had barged into his office first thing Monday morning and tried throwing so many accusations around that the district attorney, drawn by the noise, had suggested the sheriff take some time off because he was clearly overworked and overstressed. </p>
<p>Peter still gets a smile on his face when he thinks about that. </p>
<p>The judge wouldn't hear anything against the marriage, using the same arguments that Peter had: that's clearly the sheriff's signature, it clearly went through the station, Stiles clearly chose Peter of his own free will. Linda's the one who called Stiles and told him, with more than a hint of cruel pleasure, that no amount of pleading with the county clerk had gotten the sheriff anywhere except a threat to call the police to arrest him for harassment. </p>
<p>As for Scott, the sheriff's tried getting a search warrant for Peter's townhouse, tried convincing anyone who'd listen that he <i>knows</i> Peter killed Scott and did something with the body. No one believes him. Not only does Scott have no reason to be on Peter's side of town, no one saw him that morning, and isn't it suspicious that the boy's employer packed up and left seemingly overnight, with little more than a note on the door saying he was taking an extended vacation? The sheriff might have gained more traction if he'd confessed to leaving Scott at Peter's, but then he'd be implicating <i>himself</i> in something potentially nefarious, and the sheriff's an idiot but not stupid enough to do that. </p>
<p>Pissed off with all the noise and attention, Melissa, according to town gossip that Rania funnelled directly to Peter, finally told the sheriff to stop making a scene all over town. Peter does feel the slightest bit bad for Melissa -- not much, knowing the product of her parenting, but a little. He's not sure whether she knows that Scott is dead or believes her own statement that he's run away and who could blame him, knowing what he's been through; perhaps believing the lie is easier, provides more hope. Either way, the last time Amanda texted Stiles, she passed along the message that Melissa's accepted a job offer from a hospital outside of DC, an offer that came to her within the last week, almost too good to be true, and that her ex-husband is going to help her move and get settled since he's lives in that general area. </p>
<p>Peter's impressed with the maneuvering. Melissa out of the way, Agent McCall distracted, the sheriff hamstrung -- everything's been wrapped up quite nicely. Peter has the support of the town, his pack's stable, his betas and mate are happy, and the deaths of his family have been avenged. </p>
<p>Of course something unexpected would come up. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Stiles texts Derek when they get to Redding. His phone beeps a few seconds later and Stiles' scent fluctuates just enough for Peter to notice -- but not long enough to get a read on -- before he says, "The others are all in the preserve. The fae's apparently just sitting there, watching them." Peter glances over in time to see Stiles' lips quirk upwards before he adds, "Mal's not a big fan."  </p>
<p>Seeing that small sign of amusement settles something in Peter that had been tense, watching Stiles spend their car ride looking out of the window, deep in thought. "We'll follow your lead on this," Peter says. "But is there anything I should know before we get there?" </p>
<p>"Scrolls mean messages," Stiles says, quiet and somehow abruptly serious, no sound or scent of humour. "For me to get one isn't surprising, since I'm on decent terms with Mab. I'd half been expecting her to invite me to Winter Solstice celebrations; time is so weird between the two dimensions that it's not surprising she'd send an emissary this early." </p>
<p>"But for Lydia to get one as well?" Peter asks.</p>
<p>Stiles' scent goes dark, deep, like some yawning, black abyss with no end in sight, the cold scent of dead roots and stale air billowing out for a handful of seconds that feel neverending. Stiles pulls it back, though, flushes out the remnants lingering in the car by flaring out the normal Spark scent that Peter loves so much. "Depends on the circumstance," Stiles says. "If this is an invite to the solstice, then -- an acknowledgment, maybe. All sorts of non-Summer-affiliated powers get invited to the Winter Solstice." </p>
<p>Peter lets out a deep breath, asks, "And if it's not for the solstice?" </p>
<p>"Too many possibilities," Stiles says, shrugging one shoulder. "An invitation for a simple visit, maybe an offer of training or a tour of the Shadowlands -- inviting both of us means that Mab's not looking to challenge Lydia right away, that she either recognises my status as something of a mentor or protector to Lydia, or that she's beginning the process of courting Lydia for an alliance, using me as a neutral party." Peter snorts and Stiles rolls his eyes, says, "As neutral as anyone gets when it comes to the fae." He stops there, scent turning contemplative, and adds, slowly, "There are other options, but those would be even more rare. An outright challenge, a fishing expedition, a witness to some sort of battle with the Summerlands, even a convocation." </p>
<p>Stiles mentioned a convocation once, Peter remembers; he'd been talking to Derek, before their impromptu courthouse wedding, something about opening paths. Peter doesn't know what a convocation is, what it means or when one happens; that Stiles listed it last means he thinks the probability is so low that it's barely worth mentioning -- which means, with their luck, that that's actually most likely.  </p>
<p>"Best guess?" Peter asks, going for a light tone and, judging by the way the skin around Stiles' eyes and mouth tightens, failing miserably. </p>
<p>"Guessing isn't safe when it comes to the fae," Stiles says, a moment later. "But it'll be interesting to see how the scrolls are addressed." Peter asks Stiles to explain; Stiles looks down as he turns his phone over and over and over in his hands. "Mab knew we were courting," Stiles says. "She'll have felt Lydia come into her power. Titania would have as well but Mab reaching out first -- not a surprise, but I wouldn't be shocked if we have an emissary from Summer stop by soon as well, now that Winter's made the first move. If Mab's scroll to me invites you, as my claimed mate, then -- politics, not a power-grab." </p>
<p>Peter hums, considers the implications. Everyone's heard of the rivalry between Winter and Summer, it's a thing of legend that even the mundane humans tell stories of, so he'd assumed there would be enmity between the courts. The way Stiles sounds, though, the few things Derek's talked about learning from the books Stiles gave him, even the way Lydia carries herself now that her eyes have gone silver and her hair's grown feathers -- it's deeper than Peter imagined. Deeper and more deadly and yet played with such a light, manipulative touch that he's impressed against his will. There aren't many in this dimension who seem to breathe cunning the way the fae do, who plot every word and deed with an eye to every possible implication, who use their own lives as chess pieces in a game that none of them dare to dream they'll lose. </p>
<p>It explains a lot about the way Stiles sees things, sometimes, when taken in combination with the fact that a Spark is close enough to fae to create the Shadowlands, that they're such close kin to Summer that they'd be able to thrive in the highest levels of the Summer Court without care, that they'd call Morrigans their own family. Peter wonders, idly, if being twinned to a nogitsune made Stiles more cunning, or if Stiles was always like this, so much a Spark that even a thousand-year-old chaos spirit couldn't change the way Stiles lives life like a game of chess. Or, Peter thinks, as if all the world truly is just a stage, and Stiles the playwright and director both.</p>
<p>"And Lydia's scroll?" Peter finally asks, speaking up as he slows down to make a right turn, the click of the signal mimicking perfectly the rhythm of Stiles' breathing. "How would it be addressed and what would that mean?" </p>
<p>Stiles shifts, taps his thumbnail against the back cover of his phone. "If it's addressed to <i>the</i> Morrigan, then it'll speak to Mab's impatience. To a <i>budding</i> Morrigan, then dismissal -- for now, at any rate. And if it's to Lydia --." He stops, shakes his head. "If it uses Lydia's name, then it's worried. And a worried Mab is never good." </p>
<p>Stiles' scent is fluctuating, the normal Spark flare of ozone and lemon a light and distant counterpoint to a growing sea of yew, saplings growing out of ashes, flares of smoke and fire on the horizon. </p>
<p>"Lydia has us," Peter says. "You told her she'd have backing to do whatever she wants, so we'll see what the messenger and the scrolls have to say and then decide what our next few steps should be." He reaches over, takes Stiles' free hand in his, laces their fingers together and squeezes tight. "We'll protect her. Worst comes to worst, it'll give you an excuse to let the Spark free and blow up the Winterlands again."</p>
<p>Stiles snorts, a surprised sound that breaks into a chuckle for a few moments, long enough for the scent of stress to die down a little, bleeding back into self-assurance and the flickering anise smell of faith. "Fair enough," he says. "That would keep Mab busy for a while. Might give Titania the impetus she needs to send a raiding party into Winter, too, which would keep <i>her</i> busy, and they'd both drag their courts along with them. Actually," he says, growing a little more lively, eyes gleaming with the curious kind of Spark-humour which anyone else might call sociopathic glee, "if those two started up another war, we could all sneak into the Shadowlands, declare Lydia queen and ourselves her court, and start taking up ground in both Summer <i>and</i> Winter before either Mab or Titania figured out what was going on." </p>
<p>Peter shakes his head, says, with laughter in his voice, "Stop planning wars, Stiles. We have our hands full enough with our own territory." </p>
<p>Stiles pouts, settles back into the seat, lifts Peter's hand to his mouth and bites at Peter's knuckles. "Boring," he complains. "But <i>fine</i>." </p>
<p>"We don't even know that Lydia's going to accept a place in the Shadowlands," Peter says, once he's wrestled the wolf back under control. He understands, now, what Letitia meant, about what happens when Stiles starts biting. He knows <i>all</i> too well. "What do you think she'll do?" </p>
<p>Stiles makes a noise, something thoughtful, something indecisive. "She has dreams here," he says. "And she's smart enough to learn everything she can before making any moves, so I have a feeling she won't be ready to meet with Mab or challenge for a place in the Shadow Court anytime soon. But Lydia always wants to rule whatever sphere she's in and fae have longer life-spans; Lydia has time to win her Fields Medal, revolutionise whatever area of study interests her, and then deal with the Shadowlands later, when she's gathered enough knowledge and grown bored with -- human pursuits." </p>
<p>Peter snorts. "And you?" he asks. "What will you do when <i>you</i> grow bored with human pursuits?" </p>
<p>Stiles turns to look at him, profile limned in a combination of sunlight and Spark glow, easy smile on his face -- though there's a mischievous glimmer lurking in his Spark-white eyes. "Retire with my alpha to wine country," he says, trying to bite back the smile, "and descend into a life of utter debauchery that would make even Dionysis jealous." </p>
<p>"Brat," Peter mutters. </p>
<p>"Ah," Stiles says, "but I'm <i>your</i> brat." He pauses, adds, "You tyrant," and laughs when Peter mock-growls at him. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>They park on the northern end of the preserve, right between Derek's Camaro and Danny's hatchback. Peter inhales deeply when they get out of the car, closing his eyes and opening his mouth to fully catch and categorise the lingering scent-impressions of his pack. Beneath the scent of gravel, of dirt, of trees, there's a faint air of curiosity, worry, and intense possessiveness. </p>
<p>When he opens his eyes, he sees Stiles standing there, facing the preserve, expression blank, even as slight glimmers of heat start to expand outwards from Stiles' frame. Peter waits for Stiles to finish whatever he's doing -- a similar kind of inspection, testing the wards, perhaps steeling himself for a confrontation neither of them had been anticipating and for which neither of them are entirely prepared. </p>
<p>Stiles finally turns to him, gestures to the preserve in unspoken question. Peter nods, and Stiles sets off into the trees at a brisk pace. Peter follows, watching as the heat-waves start to gather light, as though ribbons of the Spark are unfurling from Stiles' body and spreading throughout the preserve. Stiles' scent follows, growing and expanding until they're flooding the space around them, strong enough to block any other scents from getting to Peter's wolf. </p>
<p>Apparently the Spark precedes them. When they come into sight of the rest of the pack, Derek and Malia are already facing them, Derek with his head tilted to bare his throat, Malia blue-eyed and barely holding onto her human skin. Danny's looking at them as well, but Peter silently applauds Lydia's caution; she's kept her eyes on their unexpected messenger. </p>
<p>The fae stands up from an elegantly-carved chair made of ice, and Peter raises one eyebrow at seeing how short they are; they must be less than four feet tall, though something about their magic or their presence outside of the Winterlands makes them <i>seem</i> much larger, like they're taking up all the air around them. They smell of cold things, dying things, snow and ice and tundra, like grass frosted-over and meat covered in freezer-burn. Their skin is so pale to be almost translucent, giving clear sight to the veins underneath, a deep blue so dark that it might actually be black; Peter thinks of Mab's fury and the black blood that her scream brought to the surface of her skin. </p>
<p>When Peter looks at the fae for too long, his eyes ache. </p>
<p>"Spark," the fae purrs. The chair they had been sitting on turns into snow and falls out of shape, and even across the wards, the pile of snow begins to melt almost instantly in the Spark's light.  "Greetings from the Winter Court and the Queen of Air and Darkness, who commands both it and me." The fae sketches a courtly bow, the wards flaring bright like crystal sunshine as a thin, braided strand of the fae's hair touches the boundary of Peter's territory. </p>
<p>Stiles tilts his head to one side, waiting for the fae to straighten up before he nods his head, a sharp movement that echoes the sudden burst of flame that settles like a circlet around Stiles' head. "I welcome Queen Mab's emissary," Stiles says, "as does the alpha of this territory, to whom I am mated, and for whom I speak in this matter." </p>
<p>The fae hums, glances over Malia and Derek and Danny, gaze slowing down and turning hungry as it rests on Lydia, then their eyes move to Peter and stay there for a long, slow study. Peter's eyes turn red, meeting the fae's look with one of his own; his head pulses with pain and he blinks back tears, but he refuses to look away first. </p>
<p>With a quicksilver smile, the fae gives Peter the shallowest of acknowledging nods before fixing their eyes back on Stiles. The fae reaches down and picks up a bowl of ice off of the ground, offering it to Stiles. "From the queen, Spark. She was quite amused you left them behind before." </p>
<p>Stiles' smile goes cold. "Which I did for a reason," he says. "I have no need of those, and no want for them, either. She knew better than to expend the energy on reforming them and offering them to me a second time." </p>
<p>"Can you find no use for them at all?" the fae asks. "'Tis rare to find a soulstone willingly given to one outside the Courts, rarer still for an even dozen." </p>
<p>Peter doesn't trust the sly curl to their lips, the hint of a kind of -- lustful fascination in their eyes. He steps closer to Stiles and, after a moment, so does Malia. Derek sees them move and inches his way even closer to Lydia, while Danny takes two very careful steps backwards. Stiles' lips flicker upwards as he glances away from the fae to look at Peter, the expression on his face turning contemplative. Peter frowns, pushes a question down his bond to Stiles, and gets nothing back but laughter. </p>
<p>Well, then. </p>
<p>Stiles turns back to the fae, says, slowly, "That's true. It would be a rare thing indeed. Something for the poets to sing about." He pauses, narrows his eyes. "They would be mine to do with as I please, as Mab swore previously?" </p>
<p>The fae nods, laughing smile dancing about their lips. "Yours in every way, Spark," they say. "Won in combat, how could they be otherwise?" </p>
<p>There are undertones here that have Peter's skin crawling. He doesn't know what it means that Mab reformed those shards into gems, doesn't know what it means that Stiles has apparently changed his mind about taking them, doesn't know why Stiles' sudden about-face has the fae so pleased. He trusts in Stiles, though, and the way that their triple bond rings with amusement. </p>
<p>"Very well," Stiles says. He steps forward, close to the wardline, and with Malia and Peter on either side, reaches past the wards to take the bowl from the fae. There's a hiss as the ice makes contact with Stiles' hands and Peter watches, fascinated, as the ice melts into smoke and the gems drop into Stiles' palms. Stiles, casually dismissive of their true nature, shoves the gems into the front pouch of his hoodie. </p>
<p>"The queen will be pleased you've seen good sense," the fae says. </p>
<p>Derek growls even as Peter bares his fangs; the fae seems inordinately pleased with their reaction. Stiles, for his part, merely snorts and holds out one hand, says, "The scrolls, then, please."</p>
<p>The fae pouts but doesn't argue, doesn't say anything at all as they pull two scrolls out of a pocket and hold the scrolls out -- one to Stiles, one to Lydia. Derek bares his teeth, fangs dropped and eyes flashing blue, and Lydia makes no move to take the scroll evidently addressed to her. Peter applauds her -- silently -- for her restraint. </p>
<p>Stiles moves, takes both scrolls, and tucks Lydia's under his arm, unrolling his own and glancing over it. Peter can't read any of the words but he feels the chill emanating outwards from whatever the scroll is made of and is taken momentarily off-guard when a pulse of shock ricochets through the pack bonds. Malia falls into her coyote skin even as Peter's tugging Stiles back, away from the fae and the wardline, and Malia starts pacing back and forth in front of Stiles, hackles raised and teeth bared, eyes pinned in the fae's direction. </p>
<p>"An overture, if you will, Spark," the fae murmurs. </p>
<p>Stiles ignores it, unrolls Lydia's scroll just enough to take in the greeting. "The Child Morrigan," he says. Lydia's back stiffens, her head tilting upward in offense, but Peter pushes calm down their bond. </p>
<p>Stiles rolls Lydia's scroll back up, taps the end of it against his leg as he eyes the fae, who bears the searching gaze with more grace than Peter would have expected. </p>
<p>No one says anything for a minute, then two, so when Stiles finally breaks the silence, Danny jumps and Lydia flinches. </p>
<p>"We'll send our response to Maeve directly," Stiles tells the fae. The fae nods, pauses mid-movement as Stiles adds, "Although I'd like you to carry a message back." There's something playfully cruel in Stiles' tone, noticeable enough that Derek's skin breeds goosebumps and Lydia starts to smile. The fae's amusement disappears entirely. </p>
<p>"Of course," the fae says, cautious for the first time since they arrived. The wolf inside of Peter snuffles in glee at the thought that their mate could cause a fae messenger to react in such a way, wants to howl in delight as the fae adds, "If I am able." </p>
<p>Stiles' grin, sharp and shark-like, makes Peter fight to keep from laughing. Oh, he'd be whining in apology if Stiles ever looked at him like that, would be on his knees begging for mercy in an instant, would do anything and everything in his power to placate the Spark -- but Stiles' bond echoes with peals of laughter and Peter will always glory in the fact that his mate has the ability and power to speak for their pack like <i>this</i>. He watches, eyes wide with delight, as Stiles waves his hand and a collar of frozen fire rings its way around the fae's neck, settles tight, and locks into place with an audible click. </p>
<p>The fae's hands fling up to their neck and their fingertips glance across the collar; they give voice to a little cry of pain as one of those frozen tongues of fire thaws just enough to spark out at the touch. They stare at Stiles, mouth dropped open, muscles trembling, as a plaintive whine of terror starts to come up the fae's throat and out of their mouth.</p>
<p>"When Mab asks," Stiles says, the words coming out slow and clear from behind his smirk, "don't dissemble. Tell your queen the whole, entire truth of what you tried to do here today. Beg for her mercy, knowing I would offer you <i>none</i>." </p>
<p>The fae nods and spins in place, disappearing in a rush of snowflakes and sleet. </p>
<p>"Why?" Peter asks, when it's clear that no one else is going to. </p>
<p>"The fae brought messages from Maeve," Stiles says, handing Lydia her scroll, "not Mab. Inviting us to participate in a rebellion." </p>
<p>Peter blinks, has to admit, "That wasn't one of the options you listed out earlier."</p>
<p>"You sent the fae back to Mab, knowing that he? she? would have to tell her about the rebellion," Lydia says, and something in her tone, more fae herself than human, sounds approving of Stiles' decision. "And yet you said that we'd send our responses later. Sending the fae back with a collar, isn't that an answer in and of itself?" </p>
<p>Stiles turns to Lydia, eyebrows raised, eyes gleaming Spark-white, and asks, "Is it, though?"</p>
<p>Peter thinks he understands. Sending the fae back will mean that Mab's aware of the rebellion brewing right under her nose, and will put Stiles -- and therefore Lydia -- on Mab's good side. But they didn't send an answer, didn't outright refuse Maeve's offer, which gives Maeve -- and Peter will have to find out who that is, what their role is -- some hope as well, and would keep Mab from assuming a Spark has declared himself for her, potentially giving Maeve some leeway in acting because Mab wouldn't want to push Stiles to Maeve's side. </p>
<p>Either way, it keeps the Winter Court occupied and keeps their gaze off of Lydia, who neither Mab nor Maeve must consider any kind of present threat.</p>
<p>Peter might have had a reputation for being sly, but sometimes his breath gets taken away by the ease in which Stiles plays the game of politics. </p>
<p>Stiles looks at Peter, then, and his grin goes soft as their bond fills with adoration and Stiles' scent turns sticky-sweet. Malia huffs, noses at Stiles' leg, and Stiles looks down, scritches behind one ear in silent, unspoken apology. He takes Peter's hand, then, and with Peter on one side and Malia on the other, Stiles turns, starts to walk away from the wardline and the other half of their pack. </p>
<p>Over his shoulder, he asks, "How's dinner sound -- two hours from now, maybe? I was thinking steaks, to celebrate." </p>
<p>As the others move to catch up to them, Derek sighs, Danny starts muttering under his breath, and Lydia begins to laugh.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you to everyone who came along on this journey with me -- your comments and kudos and reading really meant a lot and gave me the energy to keep going when things were rough. I hope no one was disappointed that I didn't give more words to the final showdown between Peter and Scott but that was never planned (and, I mean, what really needs to be said about it? Scott had no chance; he didn't last long.). </p>
<p>For now, I'm planning on giving this universe a rest and taking a breath to focus on other stories and other iterations of Stiles, who -- no matter what perspective I'm writing from -- always ends up being my focus. I've said before in comments that if ideas come, either for one-shots or longer chaptered stories, I won't turn them away, but nothing is currently planned. </p>
<p>♥</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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